


America Isn't Chicken

by Amuly



Series: America Isn't Chicken [1]
Category: Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (very mild domestic violence), Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Bottom Steve, Bottom Tony, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Extremis, F/F, F/M, Gay Chicken, Getting Together, Gore, Heterosexual Sex, Kidnapping, Lesbian Sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Porn Watching, Sex Toys, Torture, Vibrators, Violence, Voyeurism, avengers vol. 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 130,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a Civil War, death, rebirth, a takeover by Osborn, brain deletion, and the fall of Asgard, Steve and Tony might just be starting to get back on solid ground with one another. Things aren't perfect, not yet, but they can be in the same room as each other without resorting to violence, and they've even managed to share a smile or two.<br/>Seems like the perfect time, then, for Tony to try and fuck it all up with a stupid game of gay chicken.</p><p>Meanwhile, as if he didn't have enough to worry about, Tony realizes some kind of supervillainous trouble is brewing when increasingly advanced armors start popping up all over Manhattan, looking strangely reminiscent of his tech. On the other side of the world, Steve gets news that Zola is on the move in Russia, with some sort of nefarious plan at work. </p><p>Which will ruin them first? Will it be this unknown armored villain who is after Tony's tech? Or will it be Zola unleashing his mysterious plan on the world? Or will Steve and Tony prove to be their own worst enemies, destroying the tentative truce they managed to forge with their own stubbornness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Америка не из трусливых](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9715664) by [Charmed_Owl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmed_Owl/pseuds/Charmed_Owl), [fytbolistka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fytbolistka/pseuds/fytbolistka), [Leshaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leshaya/pseuds/Leshaya), [lord_Henry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lord_Henry/pseuds/lord_Henry), [WTF_Avengers_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Avengers_2017/pseuds/WTF_Avengers_2017), [Yamanari_Tai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yamanari_Tai/pseuds/Yamanari_Tai)



> Full credits are available on [this page](http://archiveofourown.org/works/860825), but I'd like to make special note of my research assistant [pookaseraph](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pookaseraph/pseuds/Pookaseraph), who tirelessly helped me plan, fact-check, and idea-bounce this fic for the past four months. Seriously, she's amazing, go check out her stuff.

 

Tony wasn't sure how it started. Or why he started it. Maybe it was because he was bored. Actually, that was probably the case. Most likely. And he was between relationships, and too busy half the time to find some socialite to bring home for a few nights.

Looking back on it, Tony really should have figured any idea that came out of these combination of events was going to lead to heartache. It always did. But some terrible corner of his mind thought that this would be fun, that Steve was an old friend and he'd probably get just as much a kick out of it as Tony did.

Amazing how often a guy as smart as Tony could be as wrong as he was and not pick up on the destructive patterns of behavior. Confirmation bias, was what it was. And the addict personality, always lurking under the surface.

Steve was sitting on a couch in one of the many common areas available to the Avengers in Avengers Tower when Tony strutted in. Maybe _that_ was what started it all: the temporary shock of seeing Steve there, relaxing in plainclothes. He was at SHIELD so much these days, running around doing his shtick with them, that Tony had grown used to not seeing him around. Then again, _Tony_ hadn't been around that much either, after being forced to move out—of his own building, and didn't that just sting?—and relocate to a small office-cum-apartment space in Jersey.

Clint hadn't let him live it down yet.

Even though he must have spoken with Steve in the field recently—that thing with the Serpent Society had been just a week ago, hadn't it?—a pang of loneliness and acute sense of _missing_ hit Tony just at seeing the tidy blonde haircut over the back of the couch.

“Heya, Cap.”

Tony vaulted himself over the back of the couch in one smooth movement, bouncing as he landed on the cushions next to Steve. The larger man didn't flinch, didn't move in the slightest, except for the corner of his lips which turned up in a smile. 

“Gotta get you out of the habit of calling me that.”

Tony snorted, dropping his feet onto the coffee table as he stretched out his long legs. The smile that had been tugging at Steve's lips twitched down into a frown. Tony smirked to himself and kept his feet in place, wiggling his ass around on the cushions at he got more comfortable.

“What, d'you want me to call Barnes 'Cap'? No way. Too weird.”

Steve was suppressing a smile, Tony just knew it. He jabbed at Steve's ribs, poked at his side, nudged at his thigh. “Come on. Once Cap always Cap. And I can't call a Russian 'Captain America'! Way wrong. McCarthy's rolling over in his grave.”

“He's from Brooklyn,” Steve pointed out needlessly.

“Once a Ruskie, always a Ruskie,” Tony teased.

Steve cocked his head, eyes still on the TV. “Have you mentioned your views on this around Natasha?”

Tony twitched, looked around. No one else was in the room. He relaxed, but only marginally.

“Point taken.”

Steve was watching some terrible reality TV show. Something about addicts, or collectors, or delinquents. Maybe all three at once. 

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Tony prodded after a moment. “Don't you have your own TV, Rogers?”

“Yours is bigger,” Steve pointed out. “And waiting for Bucky. Got tickets to a Dodgers game. It's opening day.”

Tony ignored the mention of Bucky. Guy was like a pile of wet blankets. In a Russian winter. Packed with explosives. Too much history and too many issues that were too different from Tony's own for him to be motivated to unpack them all. He much preferred Steve's warm light and steady kindness to Bucky's inferiority, guilt, and sharp seriousness. Not that Steve wasn't all those things too, sometimes. But it was just... different. With Steve.

 _Yours is bigger_. 

Tony snorted. 

_That_ was probably where the whole thing started, if he had to pinpoint an exact moment. Steve's throwaway comment, coupled with Tony's loneliness and feeling that he hadn't seen Steve in decades, even if it just had been last week.

“Always knew you'd be a size queen, Rogers.”

Steve snorted. Without missing a beat, he replied: “How many stories does this tower you built have?”

“More than the Baxter Building,” Tony replied immediately.

“And I'm the 'size queen'.”

Now it was too late. The idea was there, in the back of Tony's mind: a virus like Extermis, only three hundred percent more likely to cause wrath and ruin in Tony's already tumultuous life.

Tony draped an arm over the back of the couch, around the center of Steve's back, and shifted himself just an inch closer to Steve. The other man didn't move or tense: he just kept watching his terrible reality TV and smiling softly. He was comfortable, sitting there with his buddy Shellhead. Tony observed all this through hooded blue eyes, irises flickering back and forth, studying Steve's features. 

What he was about to do was bad. It was wrong, and it was going to end with anything Tony still had razed to the ground around him, turned to ash just as he was starting to scramble some footholds and climb his way back up again. 

Pushing down his self-loathing—because oh boy, wasn't Tony the best at that, after all these years of practice—Tony nodded at the TV. “Alright, what's the garbage and why am I watching it instead of something good?”

He punctuated this by raising his hips and resettling close to Steve, keeping his arm in place across the back of the couch. The only reaction Steve had to this was to move the remote on his left side further away, all the way to the end table on that side of him. 

“It's a human interest story. When you sit down first, you can choose what we watch.”

Tony snorted but fell silent, watching families scream and cry and hug. Steve's presence was warm and solid next to him, watching the program with a quiet smile on his face. Tony's focus was more on Steve, and wondering: how far he could push it, how far he could bend it, before it broke.

When Bucky came and dragged Steve away to the baseball game, Tony sat for a while longer, the original purpose of his visit to the Tower gone from his mind. Instead his thoughts were on Steve, and how he didn't move away.

Tony bet he could get Steve to move away. He just had to be more systematic about it. Plan something out.

Tony's life was one long list of bad ideas tempered only barely in favor of good ones. Judging by his track record, you'd think he'd be able to start wising up, picking out the bad ideas at a distance. Apparently not—and especially not, it seemed, when it came to Steve.

  
  



	2. Chapter 1

 

Music blared through the cramped room as Tony's fingers fiddled with minute circuitry, eyes flickering in the opposite direction and mind flung far afield in another direction entirely. There were readings and sensors and alarms and streams of data all... all...

Wait.

Tony turned in his chair, eyes going to the screen his mind had been occupied with. Something had flared up. Something bad.

With one firm push to the worktable he had been at, Tony rolled his chair and himself across the maybe six feet of floor to the other workstation. He couldn't even call up in his memory what had caught his attention—it had been a bright spot, a flash of red warning. His fingers ran over the keys of the desktop, even as his mind ran ahead of him, into the machine. Something was wrong. Something about his armor... security systems...

An alarm outside of his own head made Tony jerk backwards in his chair. Whatever he was getting close to in the computer was abruptly lost, snapping away from his mind like a rubber band. Tony frowned, searching around for the source of the noise.

Avengers. Something that they needed him on. Tony mentally pulled up the alert and checked.

There was already video footage on the internet, shaky cell-phone cameras uploading the scene to youtube. SHIELD probably had better eyes on that right now, but Tony couldn't access that from here, or this way. There were robots rampaging: not doombots, or AIM drones. Nothing like what he'd ever seen before. A flash, the scene went white, then slowly the color returned. Something bright enough to wipe out the camera for a few seconds. After two seconds, three, four, another flash, this one further away. Far enough away for Tony to get a good look at it, without the camera going out. It looked like... a repulsor blast?

Fuck no.

Without a moment's hesitation Tony jumped up and ran from the building, shedding his clothes as he went. The armor spread from his bones with just the whisper of a thought, his mind reaching out to it as easily as it could tell his hand to raise or foot to tap. The window in front of him slid away with another mental touch, and then with two strides he was outside, thrusters kicking in before he had half a second to drop, accelerating him through the daytime sky.

He scanned news reports as he went, figuring out the cross-streets, the places where he might be of most use. Captain America's shield was whizzing through the carnage, Bucky already hard at work lobbing off robot heads and caving in chests with his vibranium discus. Carol was on air support, tackling any stragglers and spinning them around, throwing them into other robots who got too close. The screech of a falcon alerted Tony to Sam's presence with her, keeping to the skies in a blur of red and silver. Hawkeye's arrows were exploding any of the metal creations that came within range of his perch on a flagpole, sending debris that might have gone everywhere were it not for Spiderman thwipping around and containing it with his webs.

From up high, Tony examined the situation. The chaos was controlled, for sure. It was nothing the team couldn't handle. But that just raised the question of why exactly Tony was called out onto the scene to assist. He looked around, sensors scanning everywhere his eyes couldn't and mind stretching farther afield than that, tapping into any cameras on the ground—cellphone, CCTV, and news crews—to try and get a better bearing on the situation. Why were these robots here? What were they attacking? What was the goal? Tony frowned. Something was wrong with this whole thing, and he couldn't put his finger on what.

Through a CCTV camera, Tony spotted Luke Cage and Danny Rand punching their way through the robots with purpose. Figuring they would have as good a beat on the situation as any, Tony shot of in their direction, crushing a robot under his armored boots as he landed. He glanced down half-interestedly at the wreckage. There was no human occupant inside, which Tony had thought was the case but was a relief to see for sure. Danny and Luke came to a stop in front of Tony, waiting as he retracted the faceplate. An errant robot came up on them that Luke took down with one punch, not even looking behind him as his fist connected. A piece of shrapnel from the robot flew off and nicked Tony's cheek. Tony winced and touched an armored hand to the cut. Damn it. He gave the robot a second glance but it was completely still.

“Iron Man. What're you doing here?”

Tony glanced around, taking in the downed robots around them. He was having a hard time mentally accessing the tech, which was strange.

“You guys got a handle on this? Who it's from, what it's for?”

Danny and Luke glanced at each other for a second, then shrugged.

“It's robots. And it's not doombots. More than that, we got nothing,” Luke said.

In response to Tony's questioning, Danny bent down and ran a hand over the smoking remains of one of the robots he or Luke had taken down. Tony waited, resisting the urge to stamp his metal boot against the ground. Danny's hands were glowing and his eyes were closed, meaning he was doing some magicky stuff. Tony really hoped these designs had nothing to do with magic.

“I sense no ill forces at work here,” Danny announced after a moment. He wiped his hands on each other, as if dusting them off, before he stood. Seeing as he hadn't actually touched anything, the gesture seemed out of place. Then again, it probably had to do with some chi-magic or something, so Tony opted not to comment on it. The less he thought about magic, the better.

“This your tech?” A robot twitched, and Luke stomped one booted foot down onto it. It stopped twitching.

Tony shook his head. “No,” he grumbled. The energy signatures that the robots' imitation repulsor blasts were giving off were eerily similar to his own, but not exact. And there was no way anyone had stolen his tech, even to the point of making something close to accurate. Not again.

With a nod Tony made his faceplate click back down.

“Give a kiss to Jessica and the baby for me,” he called out to Luke as he fired up his boot thrusters.

“Find your own wife to give kisses to!”

He was back above the tops of the buildings around him in seconds, letting himself be sucked back into the fray of battle. The movement of the robots was slow and clunky, which explained why the Avengers was having such an easy time with them. Their repulsor blasts weren't as powerful as Tony's, either. In fact, they reminded him of his old stealth armor specs, minus the stealth. It was like the bots were cobbled together out of some of the weakest pieces of his old designs, which was just... odd. If someone _could_ steal his tech, then they'd make something better than these clunkers. And if they couldn't, then the energy signatures would be much more disparate than these were.

“Watch out, fly boy!”

Carol buzzed him, flying close enough that his armor flared out a warning. Tony reigned in the defense systems and rolled down, out of her way as she chased after a particularly dogged robot, trying to make its escape. Two seconds later and the robot was plummeting to earth, a hole punched clean through it. But Tony didn't have time to admire the Avengers in the fight: he was still trying to figure out exactly _what_ these robots were even after.

A repulsor blast whizzed by his head, forcing Tony to twist and move in ways his spine really shouldn't twist and move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw uniformed boots hitting the ground. A whir, a twist: Tony bent himself backwards and fired another blast at the robot bearing down on him. It struck off-center, but close enough. The thing stuttered, started, stopped, tried to reboot. Tony hit again before it could. Its foot-thrusters sputtered out and it dropped like a stone. He didn't spare a wince for the pavement it cracked beneath its weight.

He spun around again, eyes searching beneath his layers of machinery for the uniforms. It wasn't the movement of agents hurrying into position that had caught his eye: it was the _lack_ of movement from one, broad, blonde spot. His eyes found the solid absence of movement again, after just a moment of searching.

“What are you doing here?!”

The still form moved now, hand going up to his ear as he heard Tony's question over the secure SHIELD channel. Even from this distance, a football field out and football field up, Tony could see the frown crease Steve's face.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

A flash of the old red, white, and blue, and a robot about to get the jump on Tony went down, crumpled under the force of the Captain America shield. Tony twisted around in midair, watching the shield return to the man currently wearing the Captain America uniform.

“What are _either_ of you doing here,” Bucky's voice growled over the same channel.

“I got an alert!” Tony pointed out. He definitely wasn't whining.

“I brought SHIELD in, in the interests of national security,” Steve replied, almost at the same time.

Tony whirled, dropped, rolled, and then blasted two robots that were trying to come up behind him. He growled and dropped away from them as they fell, racing off to Steve.

He thudded to the ground in front of the other man, who was looking all-too-serious in his SHIELD uniform. Tony switched his faceplate up, eyes narrowed.

“You think it's my tech, isn't it? You think it got out again?”

Steve's lips were in a thin line. “Wouldn't be the first time. We got reports of suits of armor firing energy blasts: we had to be sure.”

With far more overkill than was necessary, Tony sent mini-missiles from a pack in his shoulder armor. A half dozen robots fell to the ground, which Tony only knew because he was watching via the Extremis sending him the information from a camera behind Steve's head. He waited as Steve's expression grew exasperated at the showboating. Tony grinned. At least if Steve was exasperated he wasn't disappointed. Nothing was worse than Steve Rogers being _disappointed_ in you.

“You alright?” Steve asked, nodding at Tony's cheek.

Tony rolled his eyes and waved a casual hand over his shoulder. “It's fine. Piece of shrapnel. Extremis'll heal it up by lunch.”

Apparently reassured, Steve sighed and asked: “Is it your stuff, Tony?”

Tony glanced around, watching the SHIELD agents start to work on containment and clean-up even as the Avengers took out the few remaining robots. There must have been seven or eight dozen of the machines, when all was said and done. It was a massive assault with such outdated tech, and for no obvious purpose. Tony frowned even as he moved in close to Steve, not wanting to be overheard.

“Listen, I don't think so. It shouldn't be possible.”

“But,” Steve prompted.

Tony's mouth twisted. “But. I need to get my hands on one of these to be sure, okay?”

Steve coughed, then looked around. There was no one nearby.

“Right. Well, I can't authorize you to do that. Iron Man.” Just as Tony was about to roll his eyes and try being sarcastic at Steve until he relented, Steve turned and started walking away from Tony.

“I'm just going to check on how containment is going over here.” Steve pointed in front of him without turning around. Tony felt a smile spread across his face. “I'm sure I didn't see any downed robots behind me.”

There was a fallen robot a dozen feet on Tony's right, still sparking erratically.

Tony engaged his thrusters for a second, just enough for them to skip him over to Steve. In one fluid movement he pulled the armor back from his left hand, leaving it bare.

“Good plan, Cap! Agent. Cap-Agent. Totally agree. We'll have to do lunch sometime to celebrate your excellent eye for situations in the field.”

Then Tony smacked Steve on the ass with his bare hand and blasted off. His armor slid in place over his hand in a second, and in the next he was skimming low to the ground where the downed robot was. Tiny calculations, minute adjustments in fuel to his thrusters and tiny wind-resistance flaps all over his suit, and Tony was able to scoop up the robot without even a nanosecond's hesitation. He was off above the skyline in the next moment, broken robot body held close to his armored chest, bear-hugging it with both arms.

Bucky's voice crackled over the comm before Tony got out of range. “Stay out of this unless we call you!” Tony figured he was talking to Steve and his SHIELD agents, until a moment later when Bucky added: “And you too, Rogers! You're not on the team; try and remember that, next time!”

Tony winced. Ouch. But he didn't have to worry about Bucky and Steve's maritals. He was too busy focusing on what Bucky had said: they hadn't called him to the scene. But he had gotten an alert. If it hadn't been the Avengers calling him to assemble... who had?

When he got back to his little office building, Tony opened the window with his mind and flew into his workstation. He tossed the robot on the floor and let the armor strip from his skin and fold back into his bones as he jogged across his workstation floor. If Bucky hadn't called him in, then the alert had come from someone else. Maybe the whole thing had been some kind of trap, designed to lure _only_ Tony in and overwhelm him with sheer numbers over technical superiority. But then the Avengers had been at the scene and ruined the villain's plans, maybe.

The computers were already flaring to life before he reached them, his mind flicking through a hundred system processes as he skimmed back to the alert. It took a minute, maybe two, before his mind flared up like a beacon and stopped. _There_.

The alert _hadn't_ come from Bucky over the Avenger's frequency. But it wasn't part of some dastardly villain's plot, either. He had been scanning for his tech in the area, working on making sure his security on his projects was a tight as possible. It had been the presence of the robots themselves that had alerted him, he just hadn't realized it. The Extremis did that, sometimes: processed the information faster than Tony could make any sort of conscious sense of it. Even after a coupleyears with it, Tony wasn't able to control it perfectly, which led to incidents like this. Sometimes it felt like Tony would spend the rest of his life trying to control the nanotech virus, and go his grave having only managed to tap into a fraction of its potential.

Although it was good to know that the alert hadn't come from a villain intent on trying to lure him into a trap—because that would mean the security of his home systems had been somehow compromised—it wasn't much more comforting to find out that someone had designed something close enough to Tony's tech to trigger an alert. In fact, such a discovery raised some nerve-wracking implications of its own: were the design differences done on purpose? Was this a low-level test made to look like an attack, made to see if the robots' energy signatures were close enough to Tony's tech that it would alert him? Tony drummed his fingers on his desk. He'd have to figure this out, fast. He didn't need Steve getting on his ass again, grumbling warnings that would end up sounding like the names _Osborn_ and _Hammer_.

A door slid open behind him. Stiletto heels clacked on the linoleum floor. Tony braced himself. It was like a pavlovian response: Pepper's heels clicking into his workstation meant he was about to be yelled at. For something that was probably only fifty percent his fault. Maybe seventy-five.

“You're not allowed to fuck Steve Rogers.”

Tony blinked. Spun around in his chair. _That_ wasn't what he expected to hear.

“Excuse me?”

Pepper held up her tablet, which was streaming video from a local news station. Apparently someone had caught his comradely pat to Steve's ass on camera. Ha. Oops. That.

“I _like_ Steve,” Pepper pointed out. She poked a single manicured fingernail at Tony. “I like him more than you, half the time. You're not allowed to sleep with him and ruin our working relationship.”

“ _Your_ working relationship? Since when you are you two working together more than Steve and I?”

Pepper blinked. Tony did, too. He had stood at some point, and the volume of his voice was unreasonably loud by the end of the sentence. He stopped, moved back a step. Winced when he bumped into the desk behind him and rattled everything sitting on top of it.

Pepper's eyebrows raised to her hairline and didn't drop. She clutched the tablet to her chest. “Tony...”

Tony rolled his eyes and threw himself back into his chair, spinning it around so his back was to Pepper. He waved one hand dismissively over his shoulder. “It was just a little post-battle slap. Steve turned a blind eye to me commandeering one of the robots for research and I was thanking him. Don't you trust me?”

“Not on this.” His chair spun around, and Tony found himself being stared down by a very suspicious Ms. Potts. He resisted the urge to look away, since it would just seem to be an admission of guilt. “I don't trust anything when it comes to you and Steve. And you two are just becoming friends again-”

“Seriously, Pep. Come on.” Tony tried a cock-sure grin. For some reason Pepper didn't seem overly reassured by this. He tried for serious, instead. “Nothing's going on. Athletes do it, it doesn't mean anything. I'll even apologize if Steve brings it up, next time I see him. Okay?”

Pepper waited a beat, eyes flickering between Tony's, like she was trying to read his mind. Tony was really, very grateful she could not.

“Okay,” she finally said. She straightened up reluctantly, glancing back down at her tablet, then over at the robot. “Is _that_ something I'm going to have to worry about?”

The robot sparked and she flinched backwards a step. Tony waved a reassuring hand in her direction. “That? That's nothing. Routine post-battle debriefing thing. Just checking out the competition. You just go off and do CEO things. You know. Business-y stuff. Cooperate takeovers, deductible dinners at disgustingly expensive restaurants. Whatever you do.”

Pepper frowned at him, but it was a warmer expression than he'd seen from her yet today.

“If you do start something with Steve...”

Tony ticked off points on his fingers: “I won't. He's not gay. I'm not gay. You'd hear about it from me and not Drudge Report.” _And even I'm not enough of a masochist to date the perfect Steven Rogers_.

Pepper patted his arm. “Thank you.”

“That all?” Idly Tony picked up a screwdriver and rolled it around his fingers, itching to start ripping the robot apart.

Pepper, who always knew him so well, smiled and started to walk away. “That's all. I'll leave you to your toys while I try and rebuild your company.”

“That's why you're the best!” Tony called after her. The door slid shut, cutting off his view of her and the sound of her heels clacking on the floor.

For a moment Tony continued to stare after her, at the closed door, twirling the screwdriver over and over his fingers. He thought about the news report she showed him, and about the sudden impulse to smack Steve's ass in gratitude. And he thought about Steve.

He shouldn't mess with it. He shouldn't poke and prod at something that had just been repaired, that was still raw. But then Tony thought about straight-laced Steve, about the look on his face as he tried not to rise to Tony's bait, or kept mum out of some misguided sense of duty or acceptance.

Tony wasn't the best at resisting temptation. But this wasn't the worst temptation in the world. It wasn't drink, it wasn't sex. It was just messing around, and hardly even at Steve's expense. More at his own, really.

With a firm shove Tony rolled himself and his chair across his workshop floor to the robot. Steve would end up laughing it off, in the end. At worst he'd give him a lecture on LGBT rights or something to that affect. It wasn't dangerous. It was just some harmless fun. He deserved a distraction, what with being broke and on the down-and-out. Messing with Steve, doing things like slapping his ass or nuzzling on the couch, it was just something to fuck with Steve and lift his own spirits.

A peculiar configuration caught Tony's eye inside the robot's chest armor. Frowning, Tony stuck one hand inside of it and started prying it open for a better look. As his fingers and mind started probing the curious tech and the mystery behind it, thoughts of Steve Rogers quickly shunted off to the back of his mind.

* * *

In an apartment in Brooklyn, coffee percolated in a pot, slowly dripping down as it was made. At the kitchen table, Steve Rogers methodically disassembled his gun, cleaning and oiling each part before putting it back together again. Then he moved on to polishing his boots, swiping the brush in smooth, rhythmic motions over the leather. By the time the coffee was done he had set both boots and gun aside with the rest of his modified SHIELD uniform in his hall closet. Before he sat himself back down he snapped the little radio in his kitchen on and pulled out a sketch pad and some charcoals from a kitchen drawer. The smell of coffee and boot polish in his kitchen took him back, so much so that he could almost hear Bucky's young voice laughing, his sniper's rifle clicking as he took care of his own weapons. Absently Steve started to smear out a landscape on paper, some indistinct place in the forests of Europe that was probably long since gone.

The doorbell went, startling Steve out of his melancholy-tinged thoughts. He grabbed a dishtowel when he stood, holding it under the faucet for a moment to dampen it. He wiped at his fingers as he went to the door, enough that his right hand was clean to open the door handle and greet whoever it was. Not that Steve didn't have any idea: three, maybe four people visited him at his apartment. Tony would be wrist-deep in his illegally commandeered robot by now, Sharon was busy with some new SWORD agent halfway across the globe, and Bucky was probably still sore at him over bringing in the troops to his operation. That only left-

“Sam. How are you?”

Sam smiled, pushing his way passed Steve and into his apartment. Steve smiled wryly and shut the door behind them, watching as Sam picked through his stuff. He wasn't nearly as bad as Tony, but he still placed less value on privacy and personal space as Steve did. Still, he was glad for the company, just now. For once, Steve couldn't find it in him to want to be alone.

“Bucky didn't send me, but you know he's not actually holding a grudge.”

Automatically Steve started pulling out an extra coffee mug and pouring Sam a cup. He collected up cream and sugar from the refrigerator and cupboard, setting the whole lot in front of Sam. Steve himself didn't like to add anything to coffee—had never gotten into the habit of it, behind German lines, and now it just tasted wrong to add any—but Sam did.

Sam appeared to be waiting for him to reply as Steve slid into his seat at the kitchen table across from him. At that, Steve rolled his eyes and smiled. “I know that. Bucky was just doing what Captain America would do, saying what he'd say.”

Sam grinned. “Gotta be just a little weird, isn't it?”

Glancing around his apartment, Steve thought about it. He certainly felt the absence of his shield like a lost limb, but...

“I'd say it was relaxing, less pressure. But.”

“But they've got you running SHIELD,” Sam supplied, laughing. When Steve opened his mouth to correct him, Sam waved him away, “And everything else they can get you to take responsibility for. Yeah. Not exactly a vacation from Captain America. Then again, I don't think I've ever seen you go on vacation in your life.”

Steve thought back, just a month or two ago.

_I've never been on a real vacation. I guess this is as close as I'm likely to get._

_You were asleep from World War Two up until the day before yesterday. What do_ you _need a vacation for?_

“None to speak of,” Steve replied simply. He brought his coffee mug up to his lips to hide his smile.

They sat in silence for a minute, Sam nursing his coffee. Steve could tell he wanted to talk about something, had something on his mind. Normally Steve was content to wait him out, but just now the silence felt unnerving; Steve felt too keenly in need of companionship to let it stretch out.

“How are you doing? And Redwing?”

Sam stroked the falcon perched on the edge of his chair, smiling as the bird preened under the attention. He clicked his tongue and tapped the table until Redwing hopped forward onto the smooth surface. Once he did Sam started running his fingers through his feathers, picking out loose fluff and smoothing down the rest.

“We're good. No scratches from that little dust-up.”

Steve nodded. Good. He knew no one had taken any serious injuries, but it was still good to hear that his friend and partner was doing well, even if he could see it for himself.

Sam's eyes were focused on Redwing's feathers when he opened his mouth to ask his own question in return. “And how about Tony? How's he doing?”

Steve frowned, not sure what Sam was getting at. Had he seen the tiny cut on Tony's cheek? “No injuries to speak of from today. He barely had to engage to enemy at all.”

Sam fiddled with a spot under Redwing's wing far longer than Steve thought strictly necessary.

“I mean... In general. How's he?”

Steve immediately grew defensive. “Not off the wagon, if that's what you're-”

“I wasn't!” Sam's fingers slipped out from under Redwing's wing as he held up his hands innocently. “I'm just... Trying to figure out how the two of you are. You know. After everything.”

“We're on good terms.” Steve thought back to his not-vacation, back to polishing scale mail with Tony mucking around with his old armor next to him, their knees brushing as they worked in easy companionship. “We've both put our differences behind us. The past is the past.” Steve grinned wryly. “I know that probably better than anyone.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I've hear that line before. And it's all well and good until the past shows up with a fancy new robot arm and tries to kill you.”

Steve set his coffee mug down a little roughly onto the table: hard enough to slip coffee over the rim and cause Redwing to flutter his wings unsteadily. Sam leveled a steady glare at Steve.

“Oops.”

Steve's apologetic smile was the blandest he could make it. Sam petted down Redwing's feathers again while maintaining accusatory eye contact.

“You were saying?”

“I'm just asking about the two of you, is all!” Sam threw up his hands and sat back with a huff. “I swear, you're worse than my pop with this stuff when you want to be.”

“What 'stuff'?” Sam didn't have the same negative relationship with his father that Steve did, but Steve still winced at being compared to anyone's dad. Always made him feel like he was doing something wrong. Being too high on a pedestal, too much of an unattainable ideal and not enough a friend, partner, and teammate.

“Relationships,” Sam said, waving a hand vaguely. “Emotions. I'm just trying to ask, genuine concern here, look:” Sam pointed at his face. It looked concerned. “How are you and Tony?”

Steve frowned. Had Tony said something to Sam? Was all this concern coming from Tony, trying to get a beat on their friendship? They were fine. They'd been fine. At least, Steve thought so. They'd been working well together in the field, and things seemed comfortable off the field, too. Steve had even trusted Tony enough to let him take that robot and give him time to sort the problem out on his own. If that wasn't 'good', Steve wasn't sure what was.

“There's nothing wrong on my end,” Steve drew out the words. Maybe he should have a talk with Tony? Try to get a feel for whatever might be going through his head? As if he could ever manage to get any sort of insight into the complicated inner workings of that man's head... Steve's lips quirked into a wry smile. It couldn't be good for inter-team relations, anyway, if Tony was feeling any sort of unresolved tension with Steve. Or for Tony's mental health.

“Okay,” Sam said. Steve returned his attention to his coffee. Sam turned back to Redwing, picking at his feathers.

“You know...”

Steve sighed. Whatever worry Sam had gotten into his head, it obviously hadn't been put to rest.

“I got this cousin...” Sam wasn't looking at Steve, wasn't looking up from Redwing's feathers. Steve frowned. “He's. You know. And I know you probably are thinking that you can't talk about. It. With me. And yeah, it's not exactly cool in my community. Not something you mention. Definitely not throwing parades like you guys do. But my cousin, he's a good kid. And I don't hold it against him or nothing. I mean, you can't really, right? Not up to him. So. It's cool with me. Don't feel you gotta. And you can mention Tony.”

Steve frowned. More. Looked at Sam, studying the man's face as it was angled away from him. If his skin wasn't so dark, Steve would have bet good money that Sam would have been blushing.

“Tony and I are not in a homosexual relationship, Sam.”

Sam shrugged too-casually. “I'm not saying you are! I'm just saying _if_ you were. Or thinking about it. Doesn't have to be with Tony, either. Could be some other...” Sam's voice cracked, “ _man_ , caught your eye.”

Steve smirked. Whatever idea Sam had gotten into his head, it was the wrong one. But at least it wasn't something serious, it was something he could laugh about with Tony later over a bowl of popcorn and a cheesy science-fiction movie from the fifties.

“You propositioning something there, Sam? Got something you might want to tell me?”

With a huff Sam flicked fingertips full of downy feathers at Steve. They floated gently to the kitchen table no more than three inches out from Sam's fingers. Steve laughed, Sam joining him after a moment.

“I was trying to be a brother! Thought there was some sort of big patriotic sexual crisis going on! Can't blame me for trying to do the right thing,” he grumbled.

After his laughter had died down Steve put a hand on Sam's shoulder. Genuinely, he said: “Thank you.” Then his lips quirked again. “Good to know that if I had a crisis over my sexuality after a hundred years-”

Sam snorted and shrugged off Steve's hand. “Don't pull that line with me. And crazier things have happened.”

The tension bled out of the room as the men went about their work in easy companionship. But a question still niggled at the corner of Steve's mind.

“What made you think Tony and I were in a relationship?” He asked. At Sam's raised eyebrows, he corrected himself. “A sexual relationship.” God knew whatever had gone on between him and Tony over the past several decades, it certainly deserved to be called a “relationship” in some sense of the word at this point.

“He slapped your ass,” Sam pointed out.

“That's just Tony,”

“Never done it before.”

Steve shifted in his chair, a little uncomfortable with what Sam was arguing. Not that Tony being bisexual would be anything wrong or bad. He just... would have to reassess things. Make sure Tony felt comfortable with his sexuality. Make sure it wasn't causing him any problems, either in the business world or the superheroic one. And make sure he wasn't leading Tony on in some way, making him think there was some potential for a more physical relationship when there was not. The last thing he wanted was to ruin his and Tony's still nascent, barely-repaired relationship. Especially because of something he could fix with a simple, honest conversation.

“Tony's just... fooling around,” Steve explained. “Probably just trying to get a rise out of me. Probably thinks I'm not okay with it.”

“But you are?”

Steve bit down on his irritation. “I'm not interested in a physical relationship with Tony. Or any man. But I'm perfectly fine if someone else—even Tony—is.”

“That's... Yeah, that's cool.” Sam fiddled with Redwing's feathers one last time, then sat back in his chair. “Yeah. Cool. That you're cool with it.”

“I am.”

Steve had hoped the finality in his tone would end any attempt of Sam's to continue the conversation. But after a minute or so of silence, broken only by the radio playing softly in the background, Sam leaned forward in his chair again.

“Yeah, but. Still thought maybe you'd have some degree of prejudice against it, even in your own head.”

“Why would you think that?” Steve was a little irritated now, though he tried not to show it. Judging by the way Redwing perked up and focused his intense gaze on him, he wasn't doing a very good job of it.

“I don't have any problems with Billy and Teddy's relationship. Or Rictor and Shatterstar's.”

“They're together?”

Steve frowned. “They were. I assumed they still are.”

Sam shook his head. “I didn't know they were together to begin with.”

“Back on topic,” Steve grumbled. “I've never had a problem with it.” He was insulted that anyone would think he did. And if _Sam_ thought he might, who knew him better than just about anyone this century, then it was a safe bet others did, too. He hadn't ever been vocal in his support of minority rights, but maybe he should change that. Xavier might be a good place to start. Maybe something with the X-Men, lend his face to the mutant rights movement. March in a gay pride parade. Maybe vocally suggest that Congress should reconsider some kind of Equal Pay legislation for women.

Then again, he wasn't just Steve Rogers right now, even if he wasn't Captain America anymore. He was tied to SHIELD, and national security, and the Avengers. He couldn't exactly speak out without seemingly speaking for one or all of the organizations he oversaw. Maybe he could talk to Bucky about it. Turn it into an Avengers thing. Surely there was more they could do.

Sam shrugged, stretching out for a long moment before grabbing for his half-finished coffee. “Hey, okay. Just figured: forties guy, maybe you never even really thought about it, since it was the accepted moral code at the time. Still widely accepted, even now. Like I said: black community sure isn't big on the Pride, let me tell you.”

“Repression of minority groups is never morally acceptable, no matter what time you live in,” Steve asserted.

Sam laughed, thumping his coffee mug down on the table. “You sound like an episode of Fat Albert aimed at delinquent time-traveling youth.”

Steve took a moment to parse that in his head, then shook his head and grinned. “Guess I'm just _old-fashioned_ like that.”

Sam drained the last of his coffee, then nodded in the direction of Steve's living room. “Game on. Have a couple beers and watch it?”

Steve smiled. “I'll do you one better and order a pizza.”

Sam groaned as he headed for the fridge. “Thank goodness. Still starving after the fight.”

As Steve settled in to order pizza over his phone and Sam moved around his kitchen opening beer and cleaning up the kitchen, Steve pushed any of Sam's misguided theories out of his mind. He knew Tony better than just about anybody: if anyone was going to notice a change in Tony Stark's attentions, it'd be him.

  



	3. Chapter 2

The wind whipped through Steve's leather jacket, spring air not yet warm enough for this to be entirely comfortable. Not that the cold bite of the wind affected Steve, but he still noticed it. Maybe more than most, what with his intimate familiarity with cold and ice, and his strong desire never to repeat the experience. But in another sense the cold was welcome, bracing in the early morning as it woke him up, wiped the sleep from his eyes on his ride over to Avenger's Tower, thanks to a predawn text from Bucky.

_I need to talk to you._

_If this is about yesterday-_

_No. Not about the armor. Something's on the move in Russia._

_The Red Skull? It can't-_

_Not sure. Just meet me at Avenger's Tower, wouldya?_

Steve pulled his bike up to the parking garage under the Tower, driving down into the dark with the ease of long practice. His eyes adjusted nearly instantly, and he knew he was seeing more than most in the dim light. He parked the bike and removed his helmet—he wore it more to set a good example than for his own sake—and started in, tamping down at the worry niggling in his gut. If the Red Skull was _somehow_ still alive, he'd defeat him. Again. Just like he always did. There was nothing he and his friends couldn't handle, given enough time. He just hoped Bucky's sources were wrong, or that the trouble was of the more mundane supervillainous kind. He didn't feel ready to face that monster again. Not just yet. 

When he stepped off the elevator to the Avengers main floor everything was quiet and still around him. Briefly Steve glanced around as he headed for the living room, taking in the familiar surroundings. It was odd not to have Tony there, loud even when silent, filling up every space he was in, every hour of the day. Right now he was probably still working on that armor Steve had let him take, not having slept yet. Or maybe he was already finished with it, solved the mystery without informing anyone else, and moved on to the next big thing that caught his attention. 

“Hey. Got somewhere more private we could go?”

Bucky was rising from the couch in the living rom as soon as Steve stepped foot in it, eyes hooded and constantly moving, assessing the space around him. Steve felt a pang of guilt as he looked at him, the young man with all the dark secrets so obviously written all over his face: the haunted eyes, the lowered brow, the grim line of his mouth. Steve had always felt guilt over leading young Bucky into battle, over not managing to save him from a terrible death. Now that Bucky was back, Steve was overjoyed... but it didn't lessen the guilt. It merely morphed it, changed it into something else, something both less and more horrific at the same time. He was happy, so happy to have Bucky alive. But at the same time, he felt guilt over his part in changing that bright, enthusiastic young man into the grim, jaded cynic before him today.

Most days, Steve just tried to be happy Bucky was back. He knew he couldn't hide all of his feelings all the time from Bucky, but Steve hoped that his happiness at having his friend returned to him was the main emotion Bucky read in his eyes. 

“Tony's lab,” Steve suggested. He still wasn't sure what sort of information Bucky had, but if he felt like it needed to be discussed in a secure space, Steve would accommodate him. “Should be empty, after all.”

Bucky nodded, eyes still making their steady, iterated journey across the room. “Lead the way.”

Once they were secure inside Tony's old workstation and the door were firmly shut, Bucky started talking. Steve sat on one of Tony's old workbenches, hands behind him propping him up, as he listened.

“Natasha's been hearing something. Rumors of rumors. Nothing from reliable sources.”

Steve nodded. He understood.

Bucky eased himself against a cabinet, back lightly pressed against the glass doors. He crossed his arms over each other, metal of his left arm gleaming in the florescent lights of the lab.

“They're saying Zola's resurfaced.”

Steve tensed, leaned forward. A few breaths and he managed to bring his body back under control, ease his muscles out of the locking tautness they had immediately bunched into at that name. _Zola. Ar_ _n_ _i_ _m_ _Zola_.

“How do you know?”

Bucky grimaced. “Like I said: rumors of rumors. But they say Zola's doing something. Something big.”

“Experiments? Are people going missing?”

Bucky shook his head. “That'd be an _actual_ lead, wouldn't it? No, nothing like that. Yet.”

Steve nodded, already dropping his gaze from Bucky's as he thought.

If Zola was up to something, Steve needed to stop him. Whatever he was doing it was sure to be trouble, and more likely than not directed at Steve himself. Or Bucky, now that he had taken up the mantle of Captain America and so recently escaped from the clutches of the Red Room. That thought sent a fresh wave of guilt through Steve. This shouldn't be his battle against a mad man, but since Steve had freed Bucky from their clutches, perhaps it was his battle now, too. 

Of course, all of Steve's guilt didn't lessen the danger Bucky could be in. Leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees, Steve raised his gaze to meet Bucky's again.

“Put all the rumors aside. What do you know?”

Steve hated to do this: remind Bucky about his time under the thumb of those monsters. But if he could remember anything that would help them, that would stop Zola in his tracks before more innocents were hurt or killed by him, then Steve would ask Bucky to relive every painful scrap of memory he still had from his time in the Red Room.

But Bucky was already shaking his head, chin dipped low over his chest.

“It's not like that-”

“Anything,” Steve pressed.

Bucky sighed, tilted his head back. He took a breath, then another, and Steve watched in sympathy as Bucky's eyes trembled closed, his Adam's apple bobbing his throat. It was painful, Steve knew. But this was for the sake of others, and more than anything else Steve knew Bucky would be willing to go through most forms of suffering to protect them. He was a hero, every inch as much of one as Steve was.

Bucky's voice was soft, infused with that vulnerability that Steve knew he didn't let anybody aside from Natasha hear. “Zola had labs all over the country. Most we shut down. He... he liked the remote. Siberia. Places where he wouldn't be bothered, either by the Russian government or us.”

Steve waited patiently, fingertips drumming against his own knuckles in a kind of nervous tick.

“Trains. But. Not. He has his own rail system,” Bucky's jaw was clenching, teeth grinding so hard Steve could actually hear them, with his super-soldier hearing. “Maps. But. Oil lines...”

Bucky opened his eyes, rolled his neck forward. “He'd need power, right? He's got these trains running, but I can't remember any sort nuclear reactors or anything spooky. I think he was just running them off diesel.”

“Couldn't we just scan aerial photographs of Siberia? Spot the rail system?” Steve was thinking out loud at this point. He was sure Tony had the technology to do something like that, with his satellites. He could probably even draw Steve up some sort of program to flip through the thousands of miles of snowy terrain and scan for railroad tracks.

But Bucky was already shaking his head. “Underground. The rail system was all underground.”

“Heat, then?”

Bucky grunted. “You don't think the Siberian permafrost would fuck that up for us?”

“Vents. If he's running diesel trains underground he has to vent it. Coal-burning, too.”

Bucky nodded, slowly. “We'd have to ask someone. But he'd have to have vents every mile, ever ten miles, something like that. Might be able to get heat signatures that way. It would take forever to find them...”

“I'll ask Tony,” Steve offered, hopping off the workstation. Bucky... Bucky went kind of still at that. Kind of assessing. Steve felt himself go still in response, worried he'd trigged something deep in Bucky's mind by moving so quickly after asking him to call up those murky memories. 

“Something else?” Steve asked, voice quiet and calm.

Bucky shrugged over-casually, his expression still guarded. 

“You sure he's the one? There's other engineers around. Why not ask someone at SHIELD? Or Reed Richards?”

Steve cocked his head, confused smile playing across his face. “Why?” he asked. “I've got Tony, and I'm sure he'd be happy to help.”

Bucky shrugged and turned away. A thought occurred to Steve and he laughed.

“You don't think he's sweet on me, too, do you?”

Bucky's shoulders when tight, his mechanical hand closing into a fist before it reopened, slowly. 

“Who's saying that?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Sam, yesterday. After Tony's little thank-you slap. I don't understand all the fuss, it's just Tony.”

When Bucky turned back to Steve his eyes were still guarded, considering. “It's Tony with _you_ ,” he pointed out. “It's Tony _only_ with you.”

Steve shrugged. “We're friends. We've got history.”

“We don't?”

A flash of hurt went through Steve. He... Did Bucky feel like he had replaced him with Tony? Was that where all this was coming from? Which he hadn't, he had _never_. Bucky had been his friend, back in the forties, but he'd also been a sort of side-kick. He was just so much younger, even if he was well-equipped to take care of himself, and Steve too, on occasion. But Tony, who Tony was to Steve after he had awoke... that was something totally different. And surely Bucky understood that?

“Bucky.” Steve took a step forward, hand out. 

Bucky's laugh was harsh and devoid of mirth. 

“I didn't mean it like that. I'm not _jealous_ of Stark. God forbid. I'm just saying, _we_ don't act around each other the way Stark acts around you.”

Steve opened his mouth to protest this, to explain how every relationship is different and consists of different dynamics emerging from the different personalities interacting and different shared histories, but Bucky was already moving back through the lab, out the door.

“Ask Stark,” he shouted over his shoulder at Steve. “Maybe watch your ass around him, this time.”

The door slid shut behind Bucky and Steve was left alone in Tony's empty lab. He glanced around, bemused. “Is there something in the water?” he pondered out loud.

A chirruping noise to his next made him jump. A little blinking blue LED light peered out from a pile of spare parts. After a moment a skittering little robot followed, part arachnid in design, partly ape-like. Steve held out his hand to it, and sure enough it scampered up into his palm, resting comfortably there with its pile of legs skewing out in every direction. 

“How about it?” he asked the creature. “Is Tony Stark gone over me?”

“ _Identified: Steve Rogers._ ” A tiny little voice emanated from somewhere inside the little creature. “ _Designation: friendly. Command: assist. Do you need assistance?_ ”

Steve sighed and set the little pile of gears and metal down onto the workbench. Of course Tony had programmed his creations to help Steve if they ever ran into him.

Now that people were pointing it out, he could see where the confusion over his and Tony's relationship might arise. With one last eye roll Steve headed out. He'd hit the gym, then call Tony for a late lunch to discuss the project to track down Zola. The genius probably wasn't going to be up for hours anyway.

* * *

Email messages streamed behind Tony's eyelids, most of it going into a mental trash bin, several pieces starred or opened. Messages from Pepper, cooperate details that needed his review, opinion, or wine-and-dining charm, minus the wine part. One from Rhodey, inviting him to watch the game at the Tower that Sunday. He sent off an affirmative reply to that. At the same time his mind opened up news pages: the Times, Drudge Report, BBC, Aljazeera, the Post. He flickered through the stories, paying special attention to the business sections and military actions. US markets weren't open yet, but the Nikkei was, so he checked that. 

Then he opened his eyes. 

Tony blinked, looked around. He still had a piece of armor clenched between the fingers of his left hand, and a soldering iron in his right. He jerked upright, dropping the soldering iron. No burns. Cautiously he picked it back up and set it in its mount. Oh. Wasn't hot. He must have turned it off. Or Pepper.

Tony yawned and stretched, twisting his neck first one way, then the other as he cracked it. He twisted his back, cracking that too. He was too old to be falling asleep at the workbench, Extremis or not. Grunting, Tony flicked through a few more news reports in his head, while simultaneously catching himself up with where he had fallen asleep last night. Right. The armor was definitely some sort of copy of his, but not a complete one. Tony still wasn't sure exactly how someone had gotten a _partial_ copy of his plans—it really should be an all-or-nothing kind of operation. But he figured he might find out some more if he could test the armor's capabilities, see exactly where it lacked the refining hand of Tony's genius and where it didn't.

A time flashed across his mind. Six am. Was that the time? Right _now_? Tony cast his mind more widely, realizing after a moment that it was. Wow. He didn't remember seeing six am since... well, since he stayed up last week working on a project. But he didn't remember seeing the _right_ side of six am in years. Tony assessed the situation around him, taking in the battered and deactivated armor sitting in pieces across his workbench and on the floor.

Might as well make good use of the ungodly hour. Popping his joints one last time with a good long stretch, Tony set to work reassembling the armor and making it safe for transport. 

Avengers Tower had plenty of sparring rooms he could work on the armor, test its capabilities. Tony whistled to himself as he worked, soldering this joint here and screwing in that panel there. Vaguely he wondered if Pepper was in the office yet, and if he could order the CEO of his company to bring him coffee. Maybe if he asked nicely.

An hour and four cups of—personally made, because Pepper'd let all her new-found status go to her head, the traitor—coffee later, Tony had the renegade armor tossed in the passenger seat of his Ducati and was racing down the Jersey Turnpike and into New York. Steve would probably give him shit for breaking the speed limit, or hanging onto some of his more expensive cars, but Steve was a buzz-kill like that. Besides, he wasn't likely to be at Avengers Tower this early, or at all, really. The man did have a secret government spy network to help run. 

Once in the garage Tony commandeered himself a flatbed cart and hauled the armor onto it, humming cheerily to himself as he punched the floor number in the service elevator and waited for the long ascent. He'd run a series of performance tests on the armor today, activating just one part of it at a time so, hopefully, whatever nefariousness was behind it wouldn't clue in to his attentions. Simple tests, like repulsor firing, flight, articulation, reaction times, &c. Then maybe he'd have a clearer picture of what they managed to steal from Tony—if anything—and what they hadn't. It might just be that they were working off a particular older design, and Tony would be able to match the performance of the armor today to one of those old plans. That'd be the second best-case scenario, following the armor not being based on Tony's tech at all. 

The elevator dinged softly. Once the doors opened, Tony pushed the flatbed in front of him, into one of the many Avengers levels of the Tower. When he reached the glass door for the gym, Tony swiped his card in front of the RFID reader and let himself in. One benefit of owning the Tower the Avengers' headquarters was, even if only previously: full access, lifetime guaranteed. 

As soon as Tony opened the door he stopped, peppy music blaring him to a standstill. He glanced around, confused. The walls of the gym were glass; he hadn't seen anyone when he was walking up to it. But then, just as Tony was mentally reaching out with Extremis to snap the music off, a sweaty, focused Steve Rogers emerged from the locker rooms on the other end of the gym, water bottle balanced carefully in wrapped hands. He was taking a long swallow, head tilted back so he couldn't see Tony, line of his throat working as he swallowed big gulps of the water down.

Tony hadn't realized he was staring until Steve dropped his head back down and caught sight of him. 

“Hey!” he shouted over the music. Steve grimaced, started heading for the wall where the controls were. With the flick of a mental tendril, Tony dropped the music to twenty-five percent volume. Steve stopped in his tracks, smiling bemusedly.

“Hey, thanks. What are-” Steve's eyes came to rest on the flatbed with the armor on it, and he stopped himself. “Oh. Good news?”

“Still testing,” Tony explained. Abruptly he realized he was still standing in the doorway, and he moved to push the flatbed further into the gym. Steve rushed forward to help, shunting work-out equipment and discarded towels and water bottles to the side, clearing a path for Tony. When Tony stopped, Steve did, bouncing forward lightly on the balls of his feet before settling again.

“You alright?” Tony asked. He couldn't remember if Steve always worked out this early or not. It was the kind of information that didn't seem too important back when they were living in the same space, but now that they were so far apart Tony wanted to know it more than anything. So he could use it as a gauge of Steve's well-being, if nothing else.

But Steve was smiling easily, pushing his hand through cropped blonde hair and sending sweat droplets every which way. “Bucky had some information that couldn't wait. We finished, and figured I shouldn't waste a trip to your facilities.” He grinned and nodded his head back at the punching bag. “Best one I've ever had.”

“Only one you'd ever _need_ , if you just kept on living here,” Tony pointed out. He was normally perfectly respectful when others turned down his generous hospitality. Carol kept a residence outside of the Tower, citing no desire to live with a skyscraper full of unruly boys when she got plenty of that growing up with her brothers. Spiderman value his privacy too highly, and had some sort of family he cohabited with, to take Tony up on the offer. But with Steve, for some reason, it stung. Maybe because Tony still so desperately wanted to buy himself back into Steve's good graces: a tactic that he knew was futile, and better yet, unnecessary. Maybe it was because he took it as a personal insult: Steve was surely used to apartment life, to dwelling with other people, and in fact had an apartment out in Brooklyn: what would be so different about living in the Tower? Intellectually Tony knew it wasn't about any of those things. Steve just liked his private space and refused to take from anyone what could be perceived of as charity. It was just the way Steve was. Emotionally, however, the refusal grated at Tony, and he had never quite figured out why.

“Hey.” With one smooth kick, Tony pushed the flatbed with the deactivated armor off into a far corner of the gym. “I'm sure I could scrounge up some gym clothes. Want to switch to punching a target that punches back?”

Steve grinned, big and broad. “Yeah. But I guess I can settle for one that _tries_ to punch back.”

Tony chortled sarcastically as he pushed past Steve and toward the locker room. 

“Yeah, yeah. Not Cap any more,” Tony grumbled.

Steve's laughter just followed him into the locker room. “Oh, so now you're going to show me how you've been holding back all these years?”

Grumbling to himself, Tony ignored Steve and scrounged around for some spare sweat pants and tank top. He'd show that ass Rogers. Not that he had any reason to believe he'd beat him now, after all these years fighting alongside Steve (and occasionally against him). Tony couldn't honestly remember a time he ever managed to pin Steve without his suit. But. Still. He had the RT pumping him up, a little bit. No harm in trying. Besides: he had a few tricks up his sleeve that might throw Steve off-balance, this time.

When he returned in fresh gym clothes, Steve was already stretching on the sparing mats, ass tight as he sat on the ground with the soles of his feet pressed together, knees bouncing off the mats as he stretched his groin. He heard Tony coming, of course he did, and in one smooth movement he hopped up to his feet with his back to Tony, before bending over and wrapping his arms around his legs, body bent in two at the waist and knees locked tight. He grinned at Tony from between his knees. “Need a minute to warm up?”

Tony glared at the blatant demonstration of disgustingly perfect flexibility and cracked open a water bottle. “Yeah,” he grumbled. “Let me do a couple laps.” 

As Tony jogged around the gym a half-dozen times, he kept his eyes as surreptitiously on Steve as he could manage. The other man was still doing all those _stretches_ , and seriously: they couldn't all be legit. The way Steve was sticking his ass in the air in the general direction of Tony just had to be deliberate. 

Tony narrowed his eyes. Alright then. So maybe Steve had caught onto his whole gay-chicken thing and started to play along. Well. Two could play at that.

Tony returned to the edge of the sparring mat, breathing just a little heavier than was absolutely necessary. He nodded at Steve then, when he was sure Steve was watching, took a long, slow drink from the bottle. He let some of the water dribble out of his mouth and down his chin to his neck. After a moment he pulled off the bottle, gasping lightly. He shook the remaining contents over his face, running the water through his hair. When he chanced a glance over at Steve, he found him to be waiting patiently. His expression might have been somewhat bemused, but certainly not uncomfortable. Tony grimaced.

“Alright, let's get this over with.” Tony tossed the empty water bottle aside and clapped his hands, rubbing them together. “I've got an armor to analyze.”

Steve rolled his shoulders as he approached the mat on bare feet, muscles playing under his skin like something out of Michelangelo’s wet dreams. His arms had to be twenty-two inches around. Tony felt decidedly flabby and underweight as he stepped forward onto the mat. One of the many drawbacks to most of his best friends—Rhodey and Pepper aside—being superhumans. 

Tony focused himself, shutting down external Extremis systems as he settled into position on the mat. Legs shoulder width apart, hands held at his waist, facing out, ready to lash out or grab or block. Steve was standing loosely in front of him, easy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His arms were relaxed, hands held lightly down at his sides. But Tony had seen him in action too many times, seen Cap sling his shield with a combined force and grace no one could match from a resting position that looked very much like the one he was in now.

Tony swallowed. He was insane. Completely insane for agreeing to this. Teasing Steve aside, he was about to get his ass kicked. 

Steve was still waiting, circling around and matching Tony's movements as he started to shift his weight, to pace in a slow circle around the mats. Steve was going to let Tony move first, Tony knew. Which meant Tony was going to lose a whole minute, maybe even two, sooner than he might have otherwise. He was never any good at striking first: always threw his weight off balance, always lost the benefits of footing and using the opponent's weight against him. His enemies were usually the come-out-blasting type, thank goodness. But Steve was a different breed of fighter altogether. Patient, considering, weighty. It wasn't like anything Tony normally went against, which mean he had little to no practice defending himself against it. 

Of course, all this was moot anyway, since Tony was fighting without the benefit of his armor. Pretty much the beginning and end of any explanation for his inevitable defeat was right there. Well: no suit, plus one super-soldier-serumed opponent.

Doing his best not to telegraphic his movement, Tony lashed out, taking several steps forward and throwing his weight into Steve's, trying to catching him off-balance. But Steve's expression snapped into focus practically before Tony moved, all intensity of that locking onto Tony in half a second and ready with a plan in the next half. As Tony's weight moved forward, Steve's moved aside, one leg and arm coming out to snap Tony behind him.

At least Tony had enough experience fighting against Steve to anticipate that much. It was like playing beginner's chess, back when he was three or four. You learn those three-move checkmates and four-move checkmates and five-move checkmates. So you always start out with those moves, and know exactly what moves your opponent is going to have to counter them, depending on his level of expertise. And since Steve was _the_ expert, Tony knew the moves he had to make to counter his. If Tony lunged forward, Steve would step to the side. Then Steve would try to use Tony's momentum against him, push him off balance along the same path. So Tony had to counter that.

Sticking his right foot out for balance, Tony turned smoothly on the balls of his feet and grabbed at Steve's outstretched arm: the one that was supposed to be throwing Tony off-balance. Tony did his best to pull all his weight against it, to move Steve. Steve stepped easily into the movement, letting Tony pull him for that step, but as soon as his feet were planted his weight shifted, and Tony found himself being the one pulled into his opponent.

Grunting, Tony allowed Steve to pull him, shoving his weight behind his left shoulder and slamming it into Steve's. It barely moved Steve, but he reacted as if Tony were a much tougher opponent than he actually was: shifting his weight backwards and moving Tony's momentum under his shoulder, under his arm, trying to toss Tony behind him. Tony stumbled, footing all shot to hell. Fuck. Scrambling frantically, Tony managed to regain his balance just in time, going where Steve was forcing him but recovering quickly enough to avoid the shove to the ground Steve was about to follow the move up with.

Now Tony was behind Steve, for just a second. Using the position to his advantage, Tony growled and bent down, running full-tilt into Steve's waist, wrapping his arms around it. His cheek pressed into Steve's back, his hands slipped on the sweat soaking through the thin white t-shirt Steve was wearing. Steve barely moved, just shifting his feet to compensate for the extra weight. He grunted, just a little, and his hands fell on top of Tony's. Shit.

Tony didn't even have a second to freeze up, to mentally prepare himself, to call on his armor and cheat his way out of Steve's grasp. No, the moment Steve's hands fell on top of Tony's, he was moving: grabbing Tony's forearms and covering them with his own, bending his thighs, and swinging Tony over him.

All the breath was expelled from Tony's lungs as he hit the ground. He didn't have long enough to recover before Steve was on top of him, heavy weight bearing down and pinning him in place. Two, three seconds after Steve pinned him, Tony drew a shocked breath, brain barely keeping up with the ass-kicking he was in the middle of receiving. Tapping into government satellites took less time for him than it took for him to realizing he was flat on his back, Steve was on top of him, and he needed to _breathe_.

Tony took one breath. Then two. _Fuck_. He started coughing, then drawing great shuddering breaths as he slowly began to get his muscle control back. Half-heartedly, and more because of instinct than anything else, Tony started to squirm and struggle beneath Steve, to figure out if there were any weak points in Steve's grip of hm. Of course there weren't.

Tony looked up at Steve, breathing hard. Steve was pressed down tight on him, knees firmly locked into Tony's thighs, hands wrapped like steel around Tony's wrists. Tony breathed, and breathed, watching as every rock of breath seemed to pass from his chest into Steve's, bodies moving in tandem, heat searing out from them like the fusion of their body's was making its own sun, something that would spread until it enveloped them, until it burned away everything they were.

Tony panicked.

Tony laughed.

Tony arched his body up into Steve's suggestively, waggling his eyebrows and licking his lips in overly dramatic fashion. “Damn, Steve. Now I know why you make all the 'dames' go weak in the knees.” As much as he could, Tony strained his neck upwards and managed to get far enough to rub his cheek against Steve's chin. “What are you going to do with me now that you've got me pinned beneath you, _Captain_?” Tony breathed the last word, making sure Steve would feel it brushing over his cheek, his ear, curling round the lobe like the ghost of a kiss.

Steve laughed and pulled up, still keeping Tony pinned but putting some empty space between their bodies. The sudden panic in Tony's chest eased a little. Internally he scoffed at himself. He hadn't had a reaction to tight spaces like that in years. The recent worry over the possible stolen tech was probably just bringing back old memories. Bad memories, of Afghanistan and the Mandarin. He had to get this little mystery straightened out before even more old anxieties chose dangerous moments to rear their heads.

“Well?” Tony was holding his breath. Why was he holding his breath?

Steve rolled his eyes and punched Tony in the shoulder. 

“Good to see you're getting back to your old self: first Stark Resilient, then working on this armor problem,” Steve nodded over at the deactivated robot still laying in the corner of the room, “and now brushing off the old flirtation skill-set.”

In one fluid movement Steve rolled off Tony, coming to rest in a squat a foot or two from Tony's waist. Tony propped himself up on his elbows, rest of his body still sprawled out on the ground where Cap had pinned him. Tony just needed a minute to catch his breath back: he could still feel the heat and pressure of where Steve's knees and hands and hips had been pressed into him. It still felt like suffocating sweetly.

“You know,” Steve continued, “it's awful flattering you're practicing on me, but I think you're ready to move back on up to dames.”

Tony laughed. The sound caught in his throat. He laughed again, forcing the noise out. There. 

“It's just that you're so damn sweet about letting me down easy, Steve,” Tony teased. Steve smiled easily at that, ducking his head a little sheepishly. The feeling of suffocation and claustrophobia faded more, nothing but the ghost of a memory of palms wrapped around wrists. 

The silence between them lengthened. Tony smiled shakily at Steve. Steve smiled, so much easier and smoother than Tony, right back. Both men looked away after two, three beats.

“Back to work, I guess.” Tony spoke to fill the silence, to give himself an excuse to look away from Steve and back to his work. 

“Oh, hey, Shellhead.” Tony turned back at Steve's call, eyes angled just a little off as Steve grabbed a towel and starting wiping himself off. His shirt had disappeared, somehow, at some point, and the soft cotton towel moved over his bare chest lazily. 

“Yeah Cap?” Field names felt more comfortable, suddenly. Tony didn't think about that. He didn't think too hard about anything Steve-related, right at this moment. Whatever had just happened, whatever sort of pseudo panic-attack that had been trigged, Tony wasn't keen on having it turn into a full-fledged moment. And since Steve had trigged it, best to avoid thinking about Steve.

Instead, Tony started calling his Extremis systems back online, feeling the connection to the stereo system in the gym, the armor in his bones, the closed-circuit security cameras all over Avengers Tower, including the gym. And the busted armor in the corner, of course. Tony could feel that, deactivated and broken but still humming, quietly, a silent sound, a intangible feel that discordantly echoed his armor's. 

Steve tossed the towel to one corner of the gym, sure to pick it up later, knowing Steve. He nodded at Tony and crossed his arms over his chest. “I told you Bucky got wind of some bad guys on the move this morning.” Tony nodded. “Well, we could use your help on something. Do you want to grab lunch today, or maybe tomorrow? Whenever you're done with your own projects.” The last words were rushed, Steve apparently remembering the armor in the corner as his eyes flickered guiltily over to it.

Tony rolled his eyes. “It's fine,” he reassured Steve. That guy was far too considerate for his own good. “We can do lunch today. I just had a handful of tests to run before then. Nothing extensive.”

With the easy grace of a man who had complete control over his every sinew, Steve uncrossed his arms and strode across the mats to Tony. He pressed a hand to Tony's shoulder and smiled genuinely. He always seemed to smile genuinely. “Thanks, Tony. I'd be really grateful.”

“Sure,” Tony replied, nonchalant. He shrugged Steve's hand off his shoulder and started off toward the deactivated armor. He was done with talking to Steve for now. He needed some time to get his head back in order, especially if they were going to be doing lunch, now. And that meant time buried in armor guts, firing repulsor blasts at cinderblocks and taking readings. It meant time away from Steve.

“Does one work for you? I've got-”

“Yeah.” Tony waved a hand, already squatting next to the deactivated armor and hauling it off the flatbed. There wasn't a power core left in the armor—that'd be absurdly reckless, even for Tony—which meant he had to hook it up to an independent power source, piece by piece, as he tested it. And of course-

Tony blinked, realizing Steve was still there. He turned, stared at Steve, who was staring bemusedly down at him. Quickly Tony played back what had just happened. After a second he realized he had cut Steve off, dismissed him, and still didn't know where they were doing lunch. Tony grimaced.

“Sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it armor. Steve just kept smiling. “Where?”

“How about I come extract you?” Steve offered. “Knowing you, you'll loose track of time and show up two days from now at a restaurant and be left wondering where I am.”

Tony shrugged. He wasn't _that_ bad. But the armor might reveal some secrets today, secrets which would send Tony into a flurry of activity and planning. Probably better safe than sorry. That sounded like something Steve would say, at least.

“Sure. One.” Tony turned his attention back to the armor, chewing his lip. He shouldn't hook it up to repulsor power. Not at first. Maybe he should go through, run all the tests he wanted to under normal AC/DC power, then after he got the readings he needed, hook up one or two minor systems to the same power he ran the suit on, see what happened. Maybe even the RT itself. Just in _case_ there was something there, some sort of supervillain easter egg waiting for him.

“See ya, Tony. One o'clock.”

Steve was heading to the locker room. Shower and change, probably. Tony already had three extension cords in his hand and a gas generator being sent up to him in the elevator, thanks to a message down to the robots in his old labs via Extremis. Tony blinked and glanced at Steve's retreating back, stumbling a little over all the cords. He should invent a wireless energy transmission system.

“Right,” he replied. Steve glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raising in exasperation at Tony's state. “It's a date.”

Steve rolled his eyes and turned back to the locker room. He waved a hand over his shoulder in one last parting before he disappeared.

For just a moment, Tony stared after him, thinking. Except he wasn't quite sure _what_ he was thinking, so it was more just staring.

The elevator was here. Tony could feel the doors opening from here. Time to get to work, then. He'd wrap his head around Steve some more later. Now, it was time to get wrist deep in some knock-off tech.

Thoughts of the armor flashing through his head, system diagrams and blueprints streaming through, fingers fiddling with the power cords as he sheered off the end he knew he'd need bare for attaching to the armor, Tony took a step forward, to the gym door. And landed flat on his face, legs tangled in extension cord. 

Darting upright, Tony tossed the cords to the ground and fled the room, heading for the elevator. He was pretty sure Steve didn't see that. He couldn't hear laughter, so probably not. The footage of the gym was wiped before Tony even reached the elevator.

* * *

“It's too easy.”

Tony shoveled another chopstick-full (chopstick _s_ -full? Hm.) of lo-mien into his mouth with his right hand as his left flickered over a tablet tabletop screen, showing Steve what he meant. Technically he didn't have to move his hand at all to move through the images, but he knew there were times that Steve was uncomfortable with how integrated he was with machines now, thanks to Extremis, and in lesser part the RT. So he still did little things, like hand gestures, to put Steve's mind at ease.

It was also partly just from force of habit, really. Tony still found himself forgetting just how much Extremis could do and trying to go about things the old-fashioned way at times, before he remembered and mentally rebuked himself for being so behind. 

“Because see, I've got the satellites right here. And if I flip through them, run this algorithm, yeah, see,” Tony's brain buzzed with activity, his fingernails and skin feeling like they were tingling with it, every hair follicle humming with electric energy, with information. All the information, always at his fingertips. It was intoxicating.

Zola wasn't running railways under the ground, diesel engines or no diesel engines, vent or no vents. Unless it was at the core of the earth, Tony had plenty of satellites that were sensitive enough to pick up that sort of information, especially when paired with the noise-canceling algorithms Tony had for just such an occasion. In the whole of Siberia there were no uncharted underground rail systems operating beneath the snowy tundra. There were subway systems and train systems throughout the whole of Russia, but Tony was in the middle of cross-checking them with Russian records. That meant finding the records, half of which weren't digital, fantastic, Tony's favorite thing. Then of the half that were on digital record, a good half of those were scanned in and not run through any sort of text-recognizing program. Which meant Tony had to run that on a quarter of the Russian train records. Once he'd done that, he had to run them through a translation program, because yeah, Russian wasn't on his high priority of keeping up his skills in reading it—even though maybe it should be, but that's what he had Extremis for, after all. Then, _finally_ , he was able to run his program to cross-check the records of the legitimate Russian rail and subway systems with heat signatures and railroads his satellites were picking up.

Nope. A few unaccounted for, but a quick manual check of those showed either utterly derelict and abandoned rail systems in the countryside or brand-new rails in the city that must not have been put into record yet. 

Tony shoved another clump of lo-mien into his mouth and chewed mechanically. 

“If you think he's using transport, he's probably just using trucks. Train systems take too much infrastructure. Now, nice thing about Russia is all the dash-cams. I can start running through them, somewhere around fifty million, give or take a hundred thousand, and see if I spot him. Run it through some facial recognition software. Something you could do is give me any photos you've got of known associates or henchmen or whatever, that would help. A dozen faces instead of one to find, you know.”

“Wow, Tony. That's-”

Tony waved away the awed, overwhelmingly grateful tone in Steve's voice. 

“It's not like it's an effort. Take me half a day. In the back of my mind. So it's not even like I can't work on other stuff like tracking down whoever made that armor. Oh, something else I can do is check airport cams for him. Private ones, I figure. Even if he's broke, no way Zola could get away flying commercial.”

Steve said something. Tony's mind was a bit engrossed with setting up a program to starting running through the Russian dash cams to actually hear it, so he took a guess:

“Just get me pictures of anyone you can, that's all I really need from you. And hey, no guarantee this'll work, but we can always widen our net to every camera in Russia. Let me start out with the dash cams, though, since it's a much smaller subset.”

“ _Tony._ ”

Tony blinked. After a second his eyes came back in focus and Tony realized he'd been staring at a houseplant ten feet to the left of Steve for he wasn't sure how long. Tony coughed and adjusted his body so he was actually facing Steve, just in case he zoned out like that again.

But Steve was smiling gently at him. Tony almost started when he realized Steve's hand was pressed over his, the one that had been flickering through information on the table screen. It was warm and dry. Tony's fingers twitched beneath Steve's. He didn't mean for them to. But Steve's hand pulled away at the movement, his eyes still smiling easily.

“Back with me?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry.” He resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. There was nothing to be sheepish _about_. He had gotten wrapped up trying to solve a problem, was all. A problem specifically focused on helping Steve.

It was a poorly-kept secret that Steve had the mutant power of making anyone in his vicinity feel guilty, even if there was nothing to feel guilty about. Tony needed to keep that in mind more.

Tony's hand that Steve's had been on curled into a fist, then relaxed.

“I appreciate all this, Tony. Really.”

Tony shrugged. He was just helping out a friend. And stopping a madman, saving innocent lives, all that. He said as much to Steve, who shrugged.

“It still needs to be said. And, anyway: I was asking about your project. How's it coming?”

Quietly Tony shut down some of his mental processes, shunting aside the programs to run in the background or start up later, when he wasn't eating with Steve. Because Steve always wanted your full focus, and made you feel guilty if he didn't have it. Even if you were distracted because you were working on a project _for Steve_. 

“Fine.” Tony shrugged. “It's not my tech,” _I don't think_ , “Just eerily similar. Maybe reverse engineered. Not running off repulsor power, but set up in such a way that it _could_ , if it just had access to it.”

Steve frowned. “Is that strange?”

Tony shoveled food into his mouth to avoid answering for a second as he collected his thoughts. If he was talking to Reed—God forbid—or Hank Pym, or some other engineering genius, it'd be easier. He'd just say the things in his head the way they were in there, and the other man would understand it. Or if he was talking to someone who didn't care, he could just say something vague and simple and be done with it. Steve was tricky. He didn't have the technical vocabulary that Tony had, or the prerequisite knowledge. But he wanted to understand as much as he could about what was going on, short of taking several years worth of courses in electrical engineering. It was tricky.

With a loud slurp Tony sucked an errant noodle of lo-mien into his mouth. Steve's eyes flickered down to it, then back up to meet Tony's. Huh. Tony filed that away for future reference. Looked like Steve was really getting into this unspoken gay chicken thing, if he was watching Tony's lips. Probably was trying to figure out what was Tony being himself and what was specifically targeted to make him uncomfortable. At least, that'd be Tony's thought process, if he were Steve.

Slowly, Tony swiped his tongue across his upper lip, then his lower. Steve's eyes flickered down again, then narrowed. Before he could say anything, Tony cut in.

“Repulsor energy isn't your typical AC/DC set-up,” he explained. “It doesn't feed in the same way all our standard energy does. If it was set up to run off any normal electricity, it wouldn't be a big deal. You know how if you go to Europe, you gotta get one of those little adapters to plug all your electronics into the stupid little European power holes?” Steve nodded. “Well, you don't need them just because the holes are different. You need them because the power coming out is different... intensity.”

Steve nodded, attention focused back on Tony's words and off his lips. Tony allowed himself a half-point in his mental tally of who was fucking with the other more. 

“But repulsor energy is... more different?”

Tony nodded. Steve was a smart guy; he might not have the technical know-how, but it was impossible to get anything past him. It was probably what made him such a good leader: the ability to take in the most vital parts of everybody's powers in broad strokes and synthesize that with everybody else in such a way to maximize the efficiency of their attack. He didn't need to know the technical stuff, and to try to learn it for everybody's little niche would be impossible. But he understood what was important and used that. 

“Repulsor energy _isn't_ electricity in the colloquial sense. I couldn't run it through your house, as is. That's the reason it's taking so long to make my buildings run on it: I have to design the electrical systems from the ground up. It's like... trying to plug your phone into a nuclear reactor. Except nuclear reactors are already designed to convert the energy they produce into standard electricity. The repulsor energy is more volatile. Not in the sense of unsafe, but just that it's too... _big_ , to be compressed back down into standard wiring.”

“But this armor,” Steve asked, “it's set up to take repulsor energy.”

Tony paused, considering how to put it again. In the quiet moment, Steve reached out and tapped the side of Tony's Chinese carton. Tony rolled his eyes and lifted out another pile of noodles with his chopsticks. He shot Steve a “yes mother dear” face as he dropped the contents of his chopsticks in his mouth. Steve, because Steve was too nice of an asshole, just sat back in his chair and smiled, not even the slightest bit smug. Except he was, the asshole. Tony knew he was.

“The way the armor is set up is like... Whoever made it is _anticipating_ converting it to repulsor energy. It's not set up that way _yet_ , there's no RT in there, but all the foundations are there. Well. _Most_ the foundations. Like I said—or maybe I didn't, but I'm saying it now—it doesn't look like they had access to my actual armor plans, but reverse-engineered the armor from what they've seen, and maybe examined the blueprints of any Stark buildings that run on repulsor tech.”

Steve frowned at that. Anger flared up in Tony, because he knew that expression. That was _reproach_ on Steve's face, and he was about to try and make this all Tony's fault. Again.

Tony lashed out preemptively. “Those blueprints have to be public, Steve. The government isn't going to grant me permission to build a skyscraper in the middle of Manhattan and rent out rooms in it to civilian businesses if they can't pretend to have looked it over for safety.”

Steve's expression was still a little stern, but he nodded for Tony to continue. Tony watched as his body slowly relaxed from where it had tensed a moment ago. Steve tended to think he was stoic, but he wore his heart on his sleeve. Tony never could figure out if he found it endearing or irritating.

“They could have reversed the system made to support repulsor energy, run it on a more typical energy source—which is what they were doing—and then have plans to steal the repulsor tech later on.”

“Could they do that?”

“No.” That, at least, Tony could answer without thinking, or hedging his answers for Steve's peace of mind. “It's inside me. Inside my memory, inside Extremis. Inside here.” Tony placed a hand over his chest, over the RT. “Unless they figure out a way to hack _me_ , which they could never do, they're not getting it.”

Steve breathed, relaxing the last of the tension from his body. But then his brow furrowed. “Then why-”

“Ambitious? Stupid?” Tony poked his chopsticks into the lo-mien container. The chopsticks slid across greasy cardboard. He frowned and glanced down. Oh. It was empty. Looked like Steve had managed to con him into eating. Well, Tony had to hand it to Steve on a job well done, there. “I don't know why they'd make that armor compatible with tech they can never get. Maybe they didn't even realize what it is: repulsor ready wiring. Maybe they saw it and just thought it was _better_ , somehow, not realizing that it's designed that way to take the energy the repulsor dishes out.”

A slow nod from Steve. His expression smoothed and he stood. “Well. That's it for now, isn't it?”

Tony shrugged. Steve started to bustle around the kitchen, removing Tony's empty carton and his own and disposing of them in the trash. Then he placed another carton in front of Tony and tapped him on the head with one finger. “Eat.”

“I already-” Even as he protested, Tony opened up the carton. Oh. _Green_ food. Tony frowned down at it. “Oh. No. Come on, Steve.”

“You need your vegetables.”

“Seriously, Steve, if you need to get some mother-henning out of the way, those kids are still running around calling themselves the Young Avengers, they could probably use-”

“Eat.”

Petulantly Tony stabbed his chopsticks into the vegetables. He skewered... something. Something green. Probably a cucumber. The bastard.

“Vegetables, Tony. They're good for you.”

“Yes _dear_.”

“Oh fuck, when did this happen?”

Tony and Steve both turned as one at the sound of Clint's voice. The archer was entering the kitchen, some sort of sports drink in one hand and sweat towel in the other. He looked like he had just come from the gym, or possibly the range. Clint gestured between the two of them as he headed for the fridge.

“I got a bet to settle with Natasha. Come on, help me win: It was before last week, right? You were just keeping it discreet?”

Tony snorted. “You bet against Natasha?”

Steve frowned. “When did what happen? What was before last week?”

Clint glanced between them, fridge door held wide open as he went still. He seemed to realize he had miscalculated badly, because his eyes narrowed and expression shut down.

“You two aren't fucking?”

“Not yet,” Tony smirked.

“Is this about after the battle-” Steve started at the same time. Then he stopped, turned to Tony with wide eyes. “Repeat yourself.”

Tony just shrugged and lazed back in the kitchen chair, spreading his legs a little wider than strictly necessary. He raised his eyebrows at Steve, half challenge, half suggestion. “You heard me, super-soldier.”

There was a moment, a quick moment, of stalemate. Tony's insides shriveled, and a split second of fear, of oh shit, of _I've gone too far_ , flashing through his head. 

But then Steve's eyes narrowed, his mouth quirked into a smirk, his holy body language turned challenging. He leaned back against the counter, hands pressed down on either side of his hips, arms flexing with all that serum-given massiveness.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Yeah, I did.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and Tony was happy, happy that Steve was in on it, was playing along with him, was happy _with_ Tony, to go along with this game Tony had no idea how to even play. It was a new thing, not their old relationship, but that was okay: their old relationship had led to so much madness, had led to them _not_ having a relationship. New was probably for the best, with them.

“Fuck. Never mind, fuck, I'm staying as far away from this as I can. Hey Stark, you need someone on the West Coast? Because I'm not going to get caught in the blast radius when this thing ends again. Or starts.”

The moment was broken, and Tony rolled his eyes at Clint and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Beat it, Robin Hood.”

“Gladly,” Clint snorted. 

For a second as Clint left Tony thought about throwing out a jab about Clint's own relationships, but then he remembered Bobbi and he snapped his mouth shut. He could be tactful, sometimes. If he chose to be.

When Tony turned back to Steve he found he was already looking away, moving around the kitchen and finishing cleaning up the remnants of his lunch. As a sort of apology Tony shoved two mouthfuls of vegetables into his mouth, making sure Steve saw him. Then he got up and handed the carton back to Steve to put in the fridge, for whatever Avenger stumbled in to grab lunch next. They moved easily around each other, Steve putting the carton away, Tony moving behind him to toss his chopsticks in the trash after one last swipe of his tongue to get the remnants of the Chinese grease juices off them. He saw Steve looking, and stopped, waited to catch his eye. Once he did, Tony ran his tongue up and down the chopsticks: first one, then the other. Something twitched inside Tony, probably that warning light, that _don't do this, it's too much_ instinct. Tony suppressed it, breathed through it, and kept licking the fucking chopsticks.

But Steve just snorted and cuffed Tony lightly upside the head. Tony laughed with him, tossing the chopsticks in the trash for good and wiping has hands off on his jeans. “Alright, shit to do, empire to rebuild. I'll get back to you with the data from the Zola search in the next couple of days, tell you if it turns up anything.”

“Sure thing, Tony. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

Just as Tony was out of the kitchen, just as he thought he was in the clear, Steve threw out one last jibe: “Drive safe, sweetheart!”

Tony laughed and adjusted his mental tally. Steve got a point for that, if only because he managed to get the last word.

 


	4. Chapter 3

 

The air was warming up in New York, finally: enough that Steve was enjoying his lunch outside today. He stood on the bridge and watched the river with a faint smile, seeing all the animals starting to come to life in the sanctuary. He loved that about New York City: how much nature it managed to pack into it, even amongst some of the most amazing feats of human engineering in the world. Sometimes he thought about how things would look even further in the future, how New York might look in a hundred years, or two hundred. Although he wasn't Tony, couldn't imagine what sort of gleaming buildings might dominate the skyline or magnificent technology they'd be using for mass transit, he always imagined there'd be gardens. Massive gardens, on every building, down every street, in every little patch of earth they could muster. New York would always have its gardens, would always find space for nature, even amidst all the industry of humanity.

“They said I'd find you down here.”

At the sound of Tony's voice Steve turned, searching for him. Tony was standing just a few yards down, hands in his suit pants' pockets, grinning at Steve for all he was worth.

Steve smirked and tossed out: “Those traitors. Give me their names: I'll have them court-marshaled.”

Tony snorted and swaggered closer to Steve. “Yeah right, you big softie.” He paused a couple feet away, pouting slightly. “What, no hug?”

Steve rolled his eyes and turned to Tony, finally. He was holding out his arms, pout firmly downturning his mouth. He wiggled his fingers invitingly.

For some reason which he couldn't even place, Steve indulged Tony and held out his arms, clasping him firmly on the back when Tony gleefully moved into the embrace.

“How have you been?”

Tony's grin was infectious, and Steve found any worries he'd been mulling over earlier in the day about some new agents and other such SHIELD matters fading away thanks to the hug. “Don't ask that,” he said. “Ask what I found.”

Steve kept his hands on Tony's shoulders, catching his eye seriously. There were circles under Tony's eyes: circles that shouldn't even be there, considering the healing factor Extremis gave Tony. Either Tony had overemphasized the amount Extremis helped his body heal—probably as a misguided attempt to alleviate Steve's mother-henning in the field—or he had been working himself so hard that even Extremis couldn't keep up. With the manic grin Tony was giving him, and the fact that he hadn't seen hide or hair from Tony for nearly a week, Steve suspected the latter.

“No, Tony,” Steve insisted. “How are you? When was the last time you slept? Ate?”

The irritated huff that escaped Tony's mouth was startlingly loud, to the point that it even gave Tony pause. He blinked owlishly at Steve, then reached up to ruffle at his hair sheepishly. “It might have been a while,” he admitted.

“Let me buy you lunch,” Steve insisted. “You can tell me what you found over a hot meal. And then you can go home and get at least eight hours sleep.”

Tony rolled his eyes but tagged along next to Steve as he walked down the bridge and to the nearest food cart, where Steve had gotten his own lunch. Tony kept trying to talk about whatever discovery he had made, but Steve insisted in discussing mundane topics until he had ordered Tony something like three falafels and a two churros. They sat down on a nearby bench overlooking the water. Silently Steve exchanged Tony's churro for a vegetable kebob he had ordered when he realized Tony wasn't going to get himself anything green. Tony grumbled but said nothing. A minute later he stole the churro back, taking a bite from it before returning it to Steve's hands.

“Alright,” Steve said. “Did you find him?” Somewhat sickly anticipation curled in Steve's gut. There was always the possibility that Bucky and Natasha's nervousness was over something that didn't exist, children's ears listening for the boogeyman in the night and scaring themselves over the sounds of the house settling around them. Then again, if Tony didn't find something, it didn't mean there was nothing out there to find. Steve wasn't sure which he would prefer, finding traces of Zola on the move or not. If he _was_ up to something, then Steve could stop him. But wouldn't it be better if Zola would just give it a rest for a few years?

“Not quite. But I've got a hell of a lot more information for you to go on than your Russian friends.” Tony's mouth twisted as he finished speaking. Steve waited as Tony shoveled a massive amount of falafel into his mouth to covers his displeasure. It wasn't like Steve was oblivious to the tension between Bucky and Tony. The two men rubbed each other the wrong way, and that was fine. Not everyone who worked together had to forge close friendships like himself and Tony had. Then again, not everyone went to war with their friend on a regular basis, like himself and Tony were. Steve nibbled at the end of his churro and grimaced.

“I don't have Zola himself on camera, but I've got a couple known associates of his, _and_ evidence that they're all working together on something.”

“How many?” Even as Steve asked the question, Tony was tossing a sheaf of papers into Steve's lap. At the same time he pulled out a little device from his suit jacket pocket and set it between them on the bench. A holographic display popped up between them. Steve flipped through the documents Tony had tossed him long enough to confirm that they were the same as what Tony was showing him on the holograph. Steve closed the folder and set it aside for later perusal.

“Thanks to Russia's love affair with dashcams, I've managed to spot no less than _five_ known associates of Zola.”

Five faces spread across the holograph, with what looked like dossiers beneath shaky, grainy footage of them getting in and out of Russian cars and trucks. Tony swept his hand over the first one: a woman, short-cropped bright red hair and an angry, determined look to her features.

“Olesya Maslak. Russian native. Has a degree in bio-engineering, which is... interesting. Several videos show her following the same shipping route once a month for half a year.”

Steve nodded, examining the video of the woman snapping orders and climbing in and out of the passenger seats of trucks. “Do you know where she ended up?”

Tony shook his head, but he was smiling. “Not just by _her_ videos. But since I've got four more 'known associates' caught on tape...”

Tony's fingers twitched and the video changed. This time it was a middle-aged man, rotund and wealthy looking, if the flashes of heavy rings on his fingers and expensive, if sloppily-worn, suit were any indication.

“Jozef Mazur, Polish-born, CEO of one of the largest GMO companies in America, been lobbying the EU _hard_ to let them in. Knows the business and law of genetically-modified creations better than just about anybody else on Earth.”

The man in the video, Jozef, turned to the driver and started yelling at him. Even on the low-quality dashcam, Steve could see Jozef's face turn blotchy red, spittle flying as he grew angrier and angrier. Finally he stopped and pulled out his phone, stabbing angrily at it with thick fingers. Tony stayed silent for a moment longer before he continued. “Guy's runs haven't been as consistent as the lovely Olesya, but I spotted him in the area twice in the last year.”

Before Steve could ask about trying to get a unified location from the two examples they had now, Tony flicked his fingers once more.

A new image took front and center, this one a petite Asian man with glasses and the worst bowl cut Steve had ever seen. Tony traced his finger around the image and snorted. “I know, right? I want to hire this poor guy just to send him to one of my stylists. Anyway, this is Daisuke Nakamura. Japanese scientist, brilliant guy, skimmed some of his papers while I was running the programs.” Tony poked at the image again, looking at Steve as he did. “You know he could have revolutionized gene therapy, only no one listened to him because his tests were biased?”

“How so?” It might not be relevant, but it might be. Especially since it was starting to seem like Zola was surrounding himself with men and women in biological and genetic fields. It definitely smelt like Zola, the whole operation. Which wasn't good, and which meant Steve needed to start gathering as much information as he could.

Tony nodded his head back and forth, obviously trying to think of a way to explain it without a whole lot of technical jibber-jabber.

“Well, he had this whole study planned about how to fix genetic disorders like LAL. That's Lysosomal Acid Lipase Deficiency. Rare disorder, basically if you're born with it your body can't break down fatty acids properly and you get a whole host of fantastic organ failure. Liver, spleen, gut... all fucked in very unique ways. It sucks, but it's rare.”

The image floated silently between them, Mr. Nakamura sliding into a truck. He wasn't stern like Ms. Maslak had been, or angry like Mr. Mazur. He said a few words to the driver, then turned to stare out the window. The rest of the drive was just that: him staring out the window, looking into the cold, barren landscape of rural Russia flashing by.

“He had a child that had it.”

Tony nodded with a grimace. “First born son. Got the kid included in the trial for his new gene therapy drug. Paid off some people to make sure he got the therapy and not the placebo.”

Steve blew out a breath. He'd seen this story before. Seen it a hundred times.

Tony told it to him anyway. “Found out. Fired, disgraced. Son died a year later, because the therapy didn't work quite right and Nakamura couldn't pay for the drugs. Tried to kill himself, but his wife got him to the hospital.” Tony poked at the image again, eyes hollow. “They're divorced now. His records drop off after that, but here he is: alive and in Russia.”

“Where are they all going, Tony?” Steve asked. It was obvious now, obvious Zola was organizing something. He could run through the rest of the files later.

Tony blinked, looking for a second like he might be nodding off right there. Steve immediately felt guilty for asking Tony to do this for him, when Tony had so many problems of his own to deal with.

But Tony just shook his head and smiled, wrinkles under his eyes and around his mouth crinkling loosely as he did. Steve sighed, heart clenching a little at the sight. Without saying a word he handed both churros over to Tony. Some of his inner turmoil eased when Tony tore into them with gusto.

“I ran some algorithms. Made some. Made them then ran them, you know how it goes. Judging by everyone's movements and then cross-referencing it with building permits, bills of sale, energy resources, and about a thousand other things I decided to toss in the cauldron because they seemed tangentially relevant, I've got Zola's base of operations narrowed down to about a circular area with a radius of five hundred miles in the middle of the Siberian tundra.”

Tony slapped the bench with a flourish. The holograph flickered for a second, then pulled up the map Tony must have been talking about it. A massive area of the Russian landscape was highlighted, hundreds of small cities scattered in its borders. Steve coughed, looked at Tony. The other man had a broad smile on his face, if not a little wobbly. Slowly the smile dropped as Tony glanced back and forth between the map on the holograph and Steve's blank expression.

“What-”

Panic welled up in Steve's chest. Tony looked so _hurt_ by his lack of reaction. His hand shot out, grabbing Tony's. “It's good,” he spit out.

Tony squinted at the display. He really hadn't slept, Steve was beginning to realize. Not for days. And no amount RT powering his body and mind was enough to make up for seventy-two—or _more—_ hours of sleep deprivation. Most days, Tony was like his very own perpetual motion machine, with or without the RT—like scientists had been looking for one forever and they hadn't realized all this time it was right there in front of them, Tony Stark. But he couldn't be one, not really.Sometimes even Tony Stark needed rest, needed to recharge. All that lack of sleep was bound to catch up with him:especially when combined with a belly full of falafel and sugary dough. Tony was crashing, hard.

“It's really good,” Steve reassured him.

Tony smiled, shoulders sagging with relief. The hallows under his eyes looked darker, deeper, somehow. “Yeah,” he mumbled, eyelids drooping. “I know. Good.” He stopped, glancing down at his hands. All that was left of his lunch were some crumpled wrappers. “I'm crashing.” The words were mumbled more to himself than meant to be said aloud, but Steve heard them.

“You didn't drive here, did you?”

Tony had to think about this for far too long. Finally he nodded distractedly. “Yeah. Yeah, my car's in a garage down the street.”

“Come on.”

Bodily Steve lifted Tony from the bench, ignoring the looks any passersby might be giving them. This was Steve's fault, and Steve had to make it right. No matter what sorts of rumors he inadvertently fanned up again because of his actions.

As Steve approached the end of the bridge and was getting ready to call himself a SHIELD car, he heard shouting. Immediately Tony snapped to attention next to him, meeting Steve's eyes. “Did you-” Tony started to ask. But then the shouting started again.

Both men rushed to opposite sides of the bridge, looking down into the water frantically. Steve had picked the correct side. “Over here, Tony!” he shouted back. Tony was at his side in an instant.

A hundred feet below them, a man and a woman were treading water, waving and calling out frantically. They were young and healthy-looking enough that they should be able to make steady progress for the shore, if it wasn't for the young man flailing badly. Judging by his movements he was injured in some way. The woman was holding at him, trying to get him to shore herself, but it was evident they weren't going to make it.

“Stay here, call the coast guard,” Steve ordered Tony. Then he turned and stared Tony down, looking him straight in the eyes. “You fly now, you might as well fly drunk.” It was a low blow, but given how exhausted Tony was, the decision-making parts of his brain wouldn't be firing on all cylinders. He needed it put in as simple and as harsh terms as possible.

Apparently it worked because although Tony winced sharply, he followed it up with a nod. “Don't drown,” Tony grumbled. “Then all my work is wasted.”

Steve snorted as he stripped himself down to his briefs, gooseflesh rising almost immediately in the still not-quite-warm spring air. “I'll do my best,” Steve promised. Then he climbed up to the top railing, took a breath, and jumped.

The water was cold enough that it ripped the air from his lungs the second he hit. But Steve had been anticipating this. He knew a thing or two about falling into cold water, and as cold as the Atlantic was off the coast of New York in the spring, it was nothing compared to the Atlantic a ways further north. Steve was just grateful there wasn't ice.

He broke the surface of the water and took a sharp breath before swimming over to the man and woman. He scooped an arm under the man, positioning him on his back.

“Are you alright, Miss?”

The woman nodded, easily treading water now that she didn't have the weight of the man holding her down. “That's my brother. He's injured,” she explained. Her teeth were chattering and lips turning blue, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

“Sir, can you hold on until we reach the shore?”

A shaky nod against his shoulder and warm breath against his ear. “Yessir,” came the reply. “It's my leg. Arms'r fine.”

“Alright, here we go. Miss, follow me, but if you can't make it don't worry: I'll come back for you once I've got your brother safe.” With that, Steve took off for the shore, paddling hard. He needed to get the both of them out of these chilly waters as soon as he could.

He reached the shore in a minute, carrying the young man the last few water-logged feet until he found a clean enough patch of earth to set him on. He glanced at the leg long enough to confirm that it was still attached and not bleeding out, before he turned back to the river to go after the young woman. She was maybe half the distance Steve had traveled, and covered a quarter again by the time he swam out to her. Steve helped her cover the last distance, slinging an arm under hers as she coughed and stumbled her way out of the river.

She went for her brother immediately, shaky blue hands checking his leg roughly. “You should take off your pants,” she ordered between chattering teeth.

“It's a pulled muscle or tendon or something,” her brother grimaced. “It's not bleeding, not broken. Taking off my pants won't do any good. It'll just fucking hurt.”

“Do you mind if I take a quick look?” Steve asked. “Over the top of the pants?”

The woman stepped aside hurriedly, shooting her brother a quieting glare when he looked like he might protest.

“What's your name, young man?” Steve asked as he ran his hands over his legs.

“David,” he gritted out. “Yeah, there, ow. That hurts.”

Steve suppressed a smile. He'd figured as much.

“You're right,” he told the man. “Ligament damage, maybe muscle. What were you two doing out there, though?” He glanced between them, getting a good look at them for the first time. The young woman was blonde, short, and somewhat petite while still being filled-in enough to be called athletic. The man, on the other hand, was tall, broad, and dark-haired. A closer glance between them revealed that the woman was blue-eyed and the man brown.

“You say you're siblings?” Steve asked. They looked nothing of the sort.

The siblings shared a glance between them, then a quiet laugh. Steve saw it, then: that silent communication, like Wanda and Pietro.

“We get that a lot,” the woman explained. “Half the time people think we're a couple. As for what we were doing: we had a boat, were going for a little spring-break adventure to celebrate little bro's final semester in college. But something _weird_ happened out there. Like, a Charybdis or something! You better send some guys to check that out, because that was _not_ any sort of natural occurrence.”

Steve nodded seriously. “You tell the coast guard when they get here, and I'm sure they'll get right on it.”

The woman stuck out her hand. “I'm Olivia, by the way.”

Steve smiled and shook her hand. “Steve,” he offered. “Nice to meet you.”

Sirens, then. A boat sped down the river, slowing to a stop onto the shore as it spotted them. Steve nodded and was about to leave when the woman stopped him with a hesitant hand on his elbow, which she quickly retracted.

“Uh. Are you. I mean. You're Steve _Rogers_ , aren't you?”

Steve was abruptly aware of his state of almost-undress. He had a sudden, entirely irrational and decidedly vain urge to tell the woman that the water was very cold (which she well knew) and not to make judgements based on what she might see. Steve firmly stamped down that urge.

“I get that a lot,” Steve hedged.

Olivia's eyes narrowed slyly. “Well. Either way, any chance I could get your number?”

Steve stared at the woman, mouth agape, for a full five seconds until her younger brother's laughter cut through the moment.

“I don't really...”

Olivia frowned. “Oh. Okay. Well, hey: if you ever want to grab a cup of coffee sometime, I'm Olivia Ursaro. Look me up!” A coast guard officer was there, then, and Olivia turned away to tend to her brother and explain what had happened. Steve made his escape while she was distracted by familial duties.

Steve managed to climb back up the embankment to where the bridge met road to find Tony leaning on the side of the bridge, dozing lightly. He'd made a pillow out of Steve's folded up clothes. Shaking his head, Steve woke Tony up enough to steal his clothes back and pulled them on, grimacing at the damp. Once he was clothed, he tugged Tony to his side and started the process of calling a SHIELD car for them again.

Tony was practically drooling on his shoulder by the time the SHIELD car arrived. Steve dragged them inside together. Once inside he moved over to the reverse-facing bench, giving Tony the full back seat to himself. Steve even rummaged around one of the side compartments until he found some blankets and a pillow. Tony snorted as he was presented with the items.

“Bring a lot of guys into here?” he teased.

Steve rolled his eyes and watched Tony bury himself under the blankets. “Only you, Tony, don't worry.”

It seemed like Tony tried to snort again, but the noise ended up trailing off into a snore. Tony was already asleep. Steve sighed and closed his eyes for a second, blindly reaching out and wrapping his hand around one of Tony's blanket-covered ankles. Steve wasn't sure why Tony pushed himself like this, when there wasn't a ticking clock that required he not sleep to get the job done.

If Steve looked at it too closely, he might begin to realize Tony only ever worked himself this hard for Steve, if the world wasn't about to end. So he didn't look.

Instead, Steve made to pick up the dossier and settle into the carseat to go over it. Before he did, he glanced once more at Tony. He still had cinnamon sugar from the churro on the corner of his mouth. Sighing, Steve licked his thumb, then swiped at the sugar. It came away easily, without waking Tony. Steve sighed and ran a soft hand through Tony's hair, smoothing it back as much as he could. Tony was right to call him a mother hen, but it wasn't like Steve could afford _not_ to be, without how many childish adults he took care of on a regular basis.

Steve left Tony snoring and again settled into his seat. He wanted to read through the last two files, and see if there was any information of interest that Tony may have left out in his quick summary of his findings. Seven hundred and eighty-five _thousand_ miles wasn't exactly the greatest find, but it was a start. At least Steve knew where Zola wasn't. And wherever he was, roads probably led to it—especially given that at least five of his associates were using them to get around.

Steve just had to start combing through the data his own way, now that Tony had done his part. Maybe he'd be able to shake something loose Tony hadn't.

That night, after dropping a practically sleep-walking Tony at his home that afternoon, Steve wrote two emails. The first was to Maria Hill, informing her with the bare minimum amount of information that he wouldn't be around for about a week, during which time she was in charge. In the event that he didn't return, he attached a formal document putting her permanently in charge of SHIELD, with the power to appoint other people to fill his many titles at her discretion. He didn't receive a reply, but could see that she had opened the email, at least.

The second email was to Bucky, but he didn't send it. Instead, Steve set up a delay of one week on it, at which point it would send if he didn't return to cancel it. In the email Steve explained the basics of what he was doing—more detail than he had to Maria, but not too much that if prying eyes were to intercept the email, it would put him in danger. He told Bucky that he was looking into the problem they had discussed last week, in the country they had suspected, and that if he was receiving this email it meant Steve had been gone for a week and hadn't returned.

Hesitating over the keyboard for a minute, Steve added one last line to the message: “ _Go to Tony. He'll know where to start looking_.”

He knew Bucky wouldn't be happy about it, but the two men working together were his best bet for getting a rescue team to retrieve him, in the event that he needed it.

For a long moment Steve sat in front of his computer screen once the last email had been sent out in a woosh of digital sound effects. It wasn't that he didn't think this was a wise course of action: it certainly seemed like it would be routine enough, for now. Get into the country in civilian clothes under a civilian identity, drive around a little bit, kick some snow around. Then leave. Not that things couldn't go wrong with such a simple plan: Steve had been around far too long to be that naïve. But no, he had almost no compunctions about his plan of action. What was gnawing at him was the guilt over leaving everyone who cared about him out in the dark. Bucky was sure to be sore with him when he came back, and Sam too, if he found out about it. Tony... Steve smiled. Tony probably knew _exactly_ what he was planning on doing, had known since he found the leads and come over to give them to Steve. At least that was one person who would be in his corner, if Steve managed to get himself into a bind.

Pushing himself up from his desk, Steve went about packing up his winter clothes and securing one of his many civilian-identity passports. Within the hour he was heading out of his apartment and hailing a cab for the airport. Whatever Zola was up to, Steve could only hope this trip would shake some things loose, bring some more information to light. Otherwise he was right back at square one, except for the knowledge that Zola was definitely doing something, while Steve sat idly by and spent his days rescuing college kids from the Atlantic and twiddling his thumbs. Steve overtipped the cab driver and stepped out to the airport, brown leather bomber jacket zipped up tight.

* * *

The house Tony parked his car in front of was surprisingly inviting, as far as Russian houses in early spring went. The lawn was carefully marked into sections with stacked stone—probably for a garden that would blossom come the spring. The paint on the house and door all looked fresh and bright, the house a cheery yellow and the door a light lavender. The front steps didn't creak or groan beneath his weight, and the doorbell played a clear, pleasant melody when he pressed it. Tony glanced around the rest of the neighborhood with his hands shoved into the pocket of his monstrous coat. Now if only the house wasn't in the frozen toe-cleavage of the world, maybe it'd be a nice place to call home.

“Tony Stark.” A heavily-accented voice yanked Tony's attention away from the scenery and on the burly man crowding the doorway with his large frame.

Hesitantly Tony smiled. Quietly he reminded himself that he had the armor, it was in him, he could have it around him in less than a second. For some reason, that reassurance didn't feel like enough as he stared up into the easily six-foot-nine inch man's thickly bearded face, brows shadowing his deep-set eyes to the point that it looked like he was wearing a domino mask.

“Boris. How have you been?”

“Good, no thanks to you.” Tony tensed. Boris leaned down, his bulk oppressive. Tony forced himself to stay in place. Boris was just screwing with him. Probably. Maybe.

Boris held a hand out to Tony, thumb pinched together with index and middle finger. He shook his hand up and down as he spoke. “You owe me money, Stark. You know this?”

Tony's brain scrambled. Was that something he had forgotten? He had paid Boris for the SHRA stunt he pulled, he knew he had. Was there another time he hired him? Sometime after that, but before he had to wipe his memory to stop Osborn? Boris was bluffing. He had to be. Probably. Maybe.

“Hey, I know you probably don't get the most current events out here, so in case you haven't heard: I'm broke. Pretty much broke. Mostly broke. I can try to help you out if you've got problems...”

Boris stared down Tony for another long, tense second. Then his mouth split into a wide grin and he threw his head back, laughing so hard his whole body shook. Tony breathed a sigh of relief. Definitely fucking with him. Pretty much definitely.

“Come in, Tony Stark!” Boris clasped a heavy hand down on Tony's shoulder, almost buckling his knees. Guy had a hand like Thor's. They bred them big in Russia, Tony supposed. Probably so they could survive the damn winters.

“So...” Tony started, hesitant. He looked around the house as he stepped through the threshold, grateful to be out of the cold but still not entirely sure Boris wasn't going to strap into Titanium Man's armor and try to pummel Tony into the tundra. The house was a cozy little cottage, all neatness and charm. There were lace doilies on the end tables. Tony stared and stared. He didn't say anything, though: You never knew when a doilies was made for a man by his mother, and Tony definitely wasn't about to call Boris a momma's boy in his own home. Especially since he was looking for his help.

“No hard feelings?”

Boris shrugged, stomping over to another room. Tony followed him at a safe distance, watching his back and keeping an eye on his exits. The room Boris had walked off to was the kitchen, and Tony entered the warm little space to find Boris bustling over the stove, putting a kettle on. Okay. Tony was going to stop being surprised by anything at this point and just go with it. RT or no, his heart couldn't take this many shocks in such rapid succession.

“I hold no bad feeling toward you, Tony Stark,” Boris replied. He shrugged big, meaty shoulders as he got two clean mugs from a cupboard next to the stove. “You paid me for a job, I did it, we square. No one paying me to kill you, no need for nastiness.” Boris laughed, looking over at Tony at that. “And of course, you pay me for information today?”

Immediately Tony pulled out his phone and showed Boris the screen he already had queued up. “There's the wire transfer. Five grand. I'd give you more, but like I said-”

“Yes, 'broke'.” Boris laughed. “It's funny, this.”

Tony grimaced and tucked his phone back into his coat pocket. Yeah, 'funny'. Something like that.

“So, what information are you paying me so much for, Tony Stark?”

Glancing around the kitchen, Tony shrugged off his heavy coat and placed it over a small wooden chair. He then pulled out the chair and sat down at the breakfast table, trying to appear more at ease than he was.

“What do you know about repulsor energy?”

The edges of Boris' mouth turned sharply down as he rocked back and forth, body language relaying before he even spoke that his knowledge was spotty at best.

“It's your tech, it's in your armor. You want to use it in your buildings, too: maybe you already have.”

Tony hesitated. There was only so much he could ask Boris without giving away too much information. Semi-retired villain or no, Boris was making his living on meetings like this: information trades. Tony didn't need something he accidentally said here to be sold to the highest bidder. He'd end up with an armor of properly-specked robots coming after him and the Avengers. Would probably take over New York, if they got the designs actually right this time.

“Anything else?”

Boris shrugged. “Not off top of my head. Might be able to find out more if asked around. Why: you forget again?”

Boris' hearty laugh was swallowed up by the kettle screeching. Boris occupied himself with steeping the tea, adding cream and sugar to his own before placing the ingredients and an unaltered cup in front of Tony.

Tony added cream but no sugar, sipping the hot beverage as Boris lowered his bulky frame into the chair across from him. “What else?” he prompted. His hands dwarfed the mug he was clenching, completely covering it until not a glimpse of the porcelain could be seen through them. Tony took another sip of his tea. It was tasty: some sort of hot spice, with a faint sugary after-taste.

“Anyone got their hands on my tech?”

Boris snorted. “Always same story with you, you realize this, yes? Osborn steal your tech, Hammer steal your tech, SHIELD and me and Crimson Dynamo and Stilt-Man: we all take your tech, one point or other. But no,” he said at last. “No, no one have anything I hear. Not more than what is...” he waved one hand to the side, “out there. Already.”

Tony nodded. That's what he had thought, to a degree. But he wanted to be _sure_. And he wanted to figure out who the hell had made the armor that so closely resembled his.

“The armor attack in New York a couple weeks ago: you know who made those bots?”

Boris shook his head. “I hear of the the attacks, of course.” His index finger lifted from where it was wrapped around the mug of tea and pointed at Tony. “We all do. But no one takes credit. We talk, of course. Ask each other: 'It was you?' But, no. No one. No one you and I know,” Boris waved a lazy hand between them, “Tony Stark.”

Tony settled back in his chair and thought about this. He sipped at his tea again, savoring the spiciness of the hot beverage. If what Boris was saying was true, it was disturbing news. It meant someone new was in play, someone none of them had ever heard of. And that was shocking. Impossible, almost. So he was back at square one, except maybe worse, because he just eliminated every suspect he'd ever had in the history of being Iron Man.

For a moment, Tony considered asking Boris about Zola, as a favor to Steve. He was here, after all. And though Boris and Zola didn't exactly run in the same circles—which was to say, Tony would be shocked if there was less than three degrees of separation between the men, even both being active in the supervillain community as they were—Boris was the man with information here in Russia. He might know something.

On the other hand, Tony might tip Steve's hand just by asking about Zola. Everyone knew Zola battled with Steve, not Tony, and everyone knew Tony and Steve were close. A blind mute would be able to put those pieces together. And Tony knew Steve was trying to keep his investigations into Zola as quiet as possible, so as not to inform the villain that he knew Zola was on the move. So Tony kept his mouth shut and just hoped the information he _had_ managed to collect for Steve from the dashcams had proven fruitful.

Boris sighed heavily and pushed himself up from his chair. Then he walked over, stopped in front of Tony, and actually patted him warmly on the shoulder. “I am sorry to tell you this. If I had better information, I would give it to you.”

Tony shrugged, careful not to callously brush aside Boris' unnecessary condolences. “It's fine, Boris. If new information reaches you, don't hesitate to contact me. I'll make sure I'm able to pay you.” _Somehow_.

Abruptly Boris brightened up. The hand that had been so sweetly patting Tony on the shoulder came down so hard Tony actually winced and leaned forward.

“Here, I give you protein cold shake! To take with you on long drive.”

Tony blinked. Boris was bustling around his tidy little kitchen, pulling out blender and all sorts of powders and yogurts and fruits. “Um.”

Boris shook his head without evening turning around, too busy putting all sorts of worrisome things into the blender. Did he just crack an egg? Uhum. Tony glanced at the front door, pondering his exit.

“It's good. Make you strong. And the cold: you put it inside, it won't touch you outside, da? You smart man, Tony Stark. You know this.”

The scream of the blender filled the small house as Boris flicked it on with a flourish. Tony swallowed. Well then. Alright.

Tony slurped on a protein-fruit smoothie as he sped down the pothole ridden Russian “highway”. It was pretty good, actually. Tony had two more in a cooler in the passenger seat. Snow and ice whipped around the car in little airborne eddies of commotion, but Tony was nice and warm in his heated truck. Not exactly the most stylish car he'd ever driven, but he had a feeling even with how perfectly engineered his sports cars were, they weren't designed for what passed for roads in Russia.

Not that being in this God-forsaken wasteland had proved useful in the _slightest_. It wasn't good, not knowing who was building this armor all gerry-rigged to function under repulsor technology. He might have reassured Steve on the matter over a week ago, but his brain couldn't let it rest. It kept picking and picking at it, determined to peel it apart even if he had to drive himself crazy doing it.

So he had started tracking down anyone he could think of who might have designed the mystifying armor. The LivingLaser was safely behind bars—Tony had double-checked himself. Doom was doing his Doom thing, but according to Reed he was still outputting his typical doombots, the most creative variations on the designs being androids, but nothing like what Tony was looking for. Blizzard was still supposedly on the up-and-up, which Tony wasn't sure if he believed but couldn't spot any ready evidence that might lead him to think otherwise. Sasha Hammer was a potential, but Tony had no word of her since he had shut down Detroit Steel. It deserved looking into, but he couldn't look into it if he had _nothing_. The young woman was living in an apartment in Chicago and working a normal nine-to-five job. Tony had eyes on her, but unless she did something criminal, he had nothing to go on.

The only thing resembling a lead he had gotten in the past three, four days of constantly scouring old villains was this address for Boris and the note that he was willing to be complicit in aiding and abetting superheroes... so long as the price was right. That, and the fact that Tony was at least on speaking terms with the man, rather than shoot-first ask-questions-later terms, which was why Tony headed out to bumfuck Russia to talk to him.

Of course, that had turned out just about as poorly as could be expected, short of Boris taking him out with the Titanium Man armor. Tony slurped harder on his smoothie. It really wasn't bad at all.

Humming along to a Russian song he didn't know, Tony pulled out his phone. He had another hour left in his drive to the airport and he could use with some cheering up. He pointedly did _not_ think about what time it would on the Eastern seaboard of the US right around now.

“Tony?”

Tony grinned. Steve didn't sound like he had been sleeping at all. Then again, he rarely sounded groggy from something as minimal as a late night—or early morning—phone call.

“Hey, Cap. Got a another hour on my drive back to Moscow, thought you'd keep me entertained. That Zola business turning anything up?” Tony neglected to add “You have to be doing better than me,” because as far as Steve knew, Tony's armor mystery had been put to rest.

“What are you doing in Russia?”

Tony blinked. “Uh...” For a split second Tony's mind scrambled, trying to figure out if he should lie or not. “Checking on a few things?” Maybe Steve would think he was looking into the Zola business and not ask too many questions. Shit. He hadn't thought about how that would look.

“You're heading to Moscow? Right now?”

“Yeah. Cruising up beautiful Highway—I don't know what highway it is, it's all cyrillic signs everywhere. Anyway, should be in the city in an hour. What's up? Want me to buy you something from the gift shop? You know I will, honey.” Tony winked. Then he rolled his eyes and knocked the phone against his temple at the pointlessness of that action.

“I'm in Moscow.”

A pothole jerked the wheel from Tony's hands and he had to scramble to correct the course of the car with both hands on the wheel. A second later and he was bringing the phone back up to his ear, incredulous. “What are you doing in Moscow?”

“I was following up on the leads you gave me.”

Tony tried to count the days backwards to check how long it had been since then, but he found himself unable to remember if it had been four or five. He'd lost a day in there at some point when he'd crashed. Maybe two. It hadn't been more than a week, at least. Which meant Steve probably hadn't run into too much trouble.

Still. “Any trouble?”

“No. Not as much information as I was hoping, but. No, no trouble.”

A sign with an airplane on it and an arrow pointing to the right came into view on the horizon. Tony took the right, grimacing as his truck bounced his axels into the third world trying to make the transition from highway to... lesser highway. Apparently Russian roads followed no logic known to man and actually grew more rural the closer to the city you got.

“How are you getting out of the country?”

“Joining a Russian ballet and defecting on our first tour to America,” Steve said dryly.

Tony snorted into his phone, shifting it to his other ear and jamming his shoulder up to hold it in place.

“Right, okay. Point. Stupid question. What I mean is: I've got a private jet, fueled up and ready to go. Want a lift?”

“Aren't you broke?”

Tony scoffed. “Not enough to fly commercial.”

“You're horrible.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Do you want to take advantage of my horribleness and get a private ride back stateside in half the time or not?”

“Of course.”

Tony laughed, hearing the warmth of a matching laugh on the other end of the call. The warmth in his expression stayed in place even after they both fell silent.

“What time do you want me there?”

Tony checked his watch, flicking his left wrist out and taking his hand off the wheel for a second to pull his coat sleeve back. An hour to the airport, his pilot was supposed to be there... oh, an hour ago.

“An hour. Jet's already fueled up and ready to go.”

“See you there.”

Tony pulled into the airport forty minutes later, truck tires skidding across the ground they politely termed a “tarmac”. He brought the truck to a halt in his usual flashy fashion and hopped out, forgetting for a second that this was Russian and it was always fucking freezing outside. The cold air hit him like a runaway glacier, swiping the heat from his body in about one second flat. Tony grumbled and wrapped his coat tighter around himself, glancing around the tarmac. The plane was already there, pilot and copilot probably already inside. A young woman was coming out of an office, smile fixed firmly in place.

“Tony Stark?” she asked, voice accented, but not as dramatically as Boris' had been.

“It's me,” he said. They shook hands, though Tony was less focused on the polite young woman and more on looking around the tarmac for- “Steve!”

Steve was just getting out of a cab, bending over in front of the front passenger window to talk to the cabby. Tony abandoned the administrator and headed over to Steve, reaching him just as he completed his exchange with the cabby.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Tony teased.

Steve shoved his hands into his puffy down coat, eyes sweeping over the small private runway before finally coming back to rest on Tony. “What are the odds.”

“I'd tell you, but you don't want to hear them.” Tony held out his arms to Steve. “No hug?”

Steve huffed in exasperation, but stepped forward to pull Tony into a tight embrace. Tony relaxed for the first time since reaching this country, the impossible warmth from Steve seeping through all their layers and thawing the frustration right out of Tony's chest. For now, at least.

Tony stepped back just enough so they could walk, but kept an arm slung around Steve's shoulders as they headed to the plane. Steve had a duffle bag clenched tightly in his other hand, while Tony just gestured at his flight staff—apparently now informed of his presence here—to collect his from the truck.

“No love on the...” Tony glanced at his flight staff and the polite Russian administrator watching them. “On the business trip?”

Steve shook his head, eyes follow the same path Tony's just had. “No,” he replied after a moment. “I was going to send you a full update, but I was unable to... meet with any of the partners I'd set out to. It's like they've disappeared.”

Tony hummed, parsing this and considering what Steve was telling him. Graciously Tony held an arm out for Steve to climb the stairs to the plane first, then laughed and almost fell flat on his face when he tried to dart a hand out to grab Steve's ass. Steve had apparently been anticipating such a maneuver, because he was four steps out of reach by the time Tony tried, thus causing him to overbalance and only managing to catch himself on the rail just in time. Steve was laughing as he ran into the cabin of the plane, Tony chasing after him.

They settled into the luxurious seats of Tony's jet and awaited take-off, quietly discussing their respective research in soft tones and veiled language as the flight staff bustled around them, getting them drinks and offering heated blankets and making sure they were comfortable. Once they were in the air and flying level, Tony waved them off and asked not to be disturbed unless he called for them. Steve didn't even blink at that, just settled into his seat with his dossiers and started flipping through them, frown deepening with every turned page.

It was a total kill-joy to see Steve so frustrated over his lack of progress. Not that Tony was feeling any better about his own research, but if either of them should be succeeding, it should be Steve. He at least knew who his enemy was and some people he was working with, whereas Tony had... nothing. A busted-out hunk of armor sitting in his workshop without any owner willing to claim him. Tony considered Steve, fingers running up and down the hot mug of coffee on the table.

“Come on.”

Steve's head jerked up, looking at Tony. “What?”

“You're over-thinking this,” Tony said. He reached out across the table between them and closed the dossier. His hand settled on top of Steve's in an effort to make sure the file stayed closed. Steve huffed, but flashed a crooked smile Tony's way. “Take a few hours, look at it with fresh eyes when we get back stateside. You'll be surprised what you might see.”

Steve leaned back in his seat, gently extracting his hand from under Tony's. For just a moment Tony's fingers twitched, reacting to try and keep Steve's hand beneath his. Tony quickly drew his hand back and mirrored Steve's body language, sitting back in his own seat.

“Could I get a recording of that?” Steve teased. “Tony Stark telling me to lay off the work, take it easy, set it aside for a while and look at it with fresh eyes later?”

Tony spread his hands lazily in front of him. “Then don't you think if _I'm_ telling you to give it a rest, it's good advice?”

Steve's mouth twisted up. “Maybe,” he allowed.

“Protein smoothie?”

Digging into the cooler on the seat behind him, Tony held one out to Steve. He gave it a skeptical look, but took it from Tony after a second and sipped on it. Tony grinned as he watched Steve's face light up.

“This is pretty good.”

“Got it from an old buddy Boris.”

Steve froze, lips pursed around the straw of the smoothie, cheeks hollowed. He stared at Tony before very carefully removing his mouth from around the straw. “Boris...”

“Yeah, yeah, Titanium Man. Don't worry, he's mostly not trying to kill me these days. I've already had two of them.”

Even after that reassurance, Steve set the drink down on the table and kept an uncertain eye on it. Tony sighed.

“Look at you: still wound too tight.” Tony jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I could get the stewardesses to give us a little show, relax you a bit. Do you know about what I've got installed on here?”

With the flick of his mind, Tony started the music playing through the hidden speakers of the jet. Steve gave him a look, to which Tony replied with a smirk and a mental command to lower the stripper poles.

Steve's disapproval was nearly a palpable thing, at this point. Face set to stern level three (it went up to five, in Tony's mental ranking), he said to Tony: “You better not bring those ladies out here, Tony. That's not right.”

The cruel part of Tony's brain lit up at that, ideas already full-formed.

Carefully Tony schooled his face to be neutral, to display the appropriate levels of serious concern and understanding. “Of course,” he replied. “Completely wrong. To have those ladies out here.”

In one fluid movement Tony stood from his seat and stripped off his suit jacket. He tossed it to a gaping Steve, along with his tie that he stripped off just as quickly. By the time he started unbuttoning his dress shirt, Steve had caught on and was sighing exasperatedly. But he was smiling, too. Tony couldn't miss that.

Half-heartedly Tony shook his hips, stuck in an indecisive place between moving his body like he was joking or moving his body like he was actually trying to seduce Steve. Not that he really knew anything about how to pole dance—besides what he'd witnessed first-hand—but he figured he could probably give it a go if he tried.

His shirt undone, Tony shrugged it off his shoulders, bending his elbows to keep it from slipping off entirely. Slowly Tony shimmied over to the stripper pole closest to them, trying to move his hips to the music. He had a feeling he was making a complete ass of himself, but he persevered. After all, the balance in his mental gay chicken tally was much too even for his tastes. He had to swing it back in his favor, and if that meant an awkward spin around a stripper pole, so be it.

The music picked up in tempo just as Tony reached the pole. Turning to look over his shoulder at Steve, Tony licked his lips suggestively, then hooked an arm around the pole and swung himself.

And got stuck about halfway through his spin before stumbling over the pole and his own feet. A burst of laughter from Steve had Tony jerking his head up and grinning sheepishly back at him.

Then Steve stood and stalked over to him, dumping his suit jacket and tie into Tony's chest. “Go. Sit.” Steve punctuated his order with a shove to Tony's back. Reluctantly Tony went back over to his own seat and set his clothes down next to him. He shrugged his shirt back up to his shoulders but didn't button it, curious as to what Steve was going to do.

Turns out, Steve was going to put on a show. An amazing show. A very... _bendy_ show. Fucking hell, peak of physical perfection indeed.

Steve started out grabbing onto the pole with one hand and swinging himself up it. He climbed the pole as easily as if he was walking up stairs. Once at the top he pulled himself upside-down, then gripped onto the pole with his calves. Tony watched, wide-eyed. Okay. That was impressive.

Steve slipped, cursed, but recovered quickly enough to drop himself down onto the floor of the plane on his feet. “Hang on,” he said distractedly.

And then he dropped the baggy cargo pants he had been wearing.

Tony's heart shot into his throat. Heat spread across his face. Okay, Steve was winning at this whole stupid game Tony had decided to start playing. No questions. Tony should just end it now.

Except, he was Tony Stark. So he schooled his expression into a more unimpressed one—had to click his jaw shut, because it apparently had fallen open about the same time as Steve's fly had—and raised an eyebrow.

Not paying him any mind, Steve tossed his pants Tony's direction, then about three layers of shirts and sweaters. Bare-chested and clad in only the most form-fitting briefs Tony had ever laid eyes on, Steve returned to the pole.

This time, he didn't slip. Steve dangled from the top of the pole with his calves, watching Tony from his inverted position. He flashed a grin, then his expression turned more sultry. Tony just watched, cataloguing the way Steve's muscles tightened and relaxed. Tony was fairly certain he didn't _have_ half the muscles Steve was using. He was defying the laws of physics. It was like a work of art, a moving Grecian sculpture.

Slowly Steve ran his hands down his chest—or up it, since he was still inverted on the pole, dangling by his calves. His hands traced a path down his pectorals, his abs, fingers flickering over the waistband of his boxer briefs before reaching lower... lower... Tony's eyebrows raised with every millimeter of flesh Steve's fingers trailed over. And then they reached past his groin and grabbed onto the pole. Tony let out a breath he didn't realizing he'd been holding.

Steve pulled himself back upright only to swing his legs out, spinning around the pole with enough centrifugal force to rattle it. His bare feet grabbed onto the pole on the fourth pass around, pushing Steve back, back... and then Steve was moving, adjusting, and somehow was actually doing a vertical backbend, using the pole as the floor. He was facing Tony again, eyes locked onto his. Slowly Steve licked his lips. If Tony's own tongue darted out to recreate the action, it was just because of mirroring. It was a psychological phenomenon, totally natural.

The music changed songs: something slower, less bass but just as erotic as the last song. More heat, less grind. Steve dismounted from the pole, muscles rippling as he moved. By the time Tony realized he was heading for him it was too late. Steve dropped down heavily onto Tony's lap. Tony looked up at him, heart catching in his throat. Just what exactly... Tony could see Steve's blonde eyelashes, fluttering gently as he blinked. How far would Steve take this? Tony's breath quickened, palms turned clammy. Shit.

Steve's fingers ghosted over Tony's bare chest, warm and dry. Tony flinched when Steve dragged a single nail over one nipple, then flinched again when the hand moved lower over his abdomen. Steve's hips were still moving with the music, Tony realized. And his hips were moving with them, grinding just so subtly against Steve's muscular thighs. Tony stared up into Steve's heavy-lidded eyes, blonde eyelashes flickering gently as he looked back.

[Steve leaned close, his breath ghosting across Tony's cheek.](http://shaliara.tumblr.com/post/82240864528/steve-leaned-close-his-breath-ghosting-across)

And then stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry in Tony's face.

Tony laughed with relief. Then he shoved forward, pushing Steve off of his lap and to the ground—no mean feat considering how much heavier with dense muscle Steve was than him. Steve just kept laughing on the ground, whole face crinkled up and belly pumping with the force of his laughter. Tony reached down and scrubbed his hand through Steve's hair, shoving his head hard at the end of it.

“Uncle, okay?! Uncle on that round, you win.”

Gathering up his clothes, Steve pulled them back on. He was still chuckling by the time he had redressed himself and tossed himself back in his seat across from Tony. A moment later something slid past Tony's knee and up his inner thigh. Tony jerked, then slapped his hands down on the table and glared at Steve. That just sent the other man into another fit of laughter, the foot—because that's what it must have been—sliding away in that moment.

“Don't start something you can't finish, Stark,” Steve cautioned. There was still wetness in the corner of his eyes from all the laughing.

Tony glared. “Oh, I'm gonna finish it,” he growled. He sat back in his seat and drummed his fingers on the table. “You just wait.”

Steve snorted and pulled a tablet over to him, flickering through it comfortably. His fingers were tapping across the screen minutes later, a steady rhythm of email exchanges, searches, maybe debriefing reports. Behind closed eyes Tony had his own computer open, catching up on anything he might have missed over the last few days. He didn't even realize that he had been lulled to sleep by Steve's quiet tapping until he awoke hours later.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing artist [shaliara](http://shaliara.tumblr.com/) did some GORGEOUS art of the scene on Tony's private jet. [Go check it out!](http://shaliara.tumblr.com/post/82240864528/steve-leaned-close-his-breath-ghosting-across)


	5. Chapter 4

 

Steve's apartment was quiet at the moment, no one bustling about, no music playing, the TV not yet turned on. The sounds of the city were still audible beyond his walls, rest of the world loud and busy as ever, but to Steve it was a pleasant background hum in his day-to-day life. Steve sipped on his coffee and enjoyed the Brooklyn silence. The smell of coffee and eggs on toast had already comfortably permeated the kitchen, lulling Steve into an easy contentment as he perused his morning emails, getting caught up on messages from the likes of Maria Hill, Daisy Johnson, and about a dozen junk messages from Tony. Steve smirked as he deleted another one about pole-dancing classes in Brooklyn.

The doorbell buzzed, breaking the warm silence. That would be Bucky: Steve had invited him over to discuss his findings, or lack of them, in Russia this past week. Steve got up and answered the door.

Bucky's eyes were cold when Steve opened the door on him, robotic arm clenched around something—a newspaper of some sort. “How was Russia?” was the first thing out of his mouth, before Steve even had a chance to greet him.

Steve held open the door and stepped aside. “Come on in. I've got coffee, and can fry up some eggs if you like.” 

“Not hungry,” Bucky grumbled as he stepped past Steve. He sighed and shut the door. Bucky sounded sullen. Steve had dealt with enough of the surly teenager during the war to recognize that tone.

“Sorry I didn't tell you about the trip earlier-” Steve tried. As he spoke he was trotting behind Bucky, following him to the kitchen table.

Before Steve could even finish, tell Bucky that the whole thing was a wash, a newspaper slapped down on the table and Steve found himself looking at a picture of himself and Tony, hugging warmly in front of Tony's plane. Steve cocked his head, bemused, then read the title splashed across the top of the page in seventy-two point font: “ _SUPERHEROIC SQUEEZE?”._

Steve blinked, then sat himself down in the chair in front of the paper. He tugged the paper close to him as Bucky took a seat across from him. There was another, much grainier, picture below the first on the newspaper's front page: one of the inside of Tony's private jet, and. Oh.

Steve fought down a flush, schooling his face in an easy, if not a little stern, expression.

“So. Russia. Productive? If one of you was a dame I might say 'reproductive?' but the pun doesn't exactly play in this situation.”

Silently Steve opened up the paper to page three, where the story was actually written out. Apparently one of the flight attendants had told the tabloid about everything that happened on the plane. And quite a few things that hadn't.

The flush on Steve's face deepened, in spite of his every effort to control it. He could feel his ears gone completely red. Great.

“Nothing happened,” Steve explained.

Eyebrows raised up into his shaggy hairline, Bucky snatched the paper away from Steve. He flipped it back to the front page and set it down in front of Steve again. He had one robotic finger pointed firmly on the picture of the interior of the jet. Steve was down to his briefs in the photo, stalking away from the stripper pole and toward Tony, who was only half-dressed himself. It was hard to see any of the detail of their expressions in the low light of the plane. It was hard even to tell that Steve had briefs on, though they were definitely visible if you squinted.

“It was a joke,” Steve tried again. “We were joking around.”

“A joke,” Bucky repeated back flatly. His eyes were shuttered now, his expression blank. But Steve knew exactly what that blankness was hiding, ultimately: irritation, betrayal, hurt. Bucky felt like Steve had been lying to him, and that wouldn't do. That wasn't right.

Carefully Steve sat back in his chair and nodded at the one across from him at the table. Bucky stayed standing, finger on the paper, so Steve was forced to try something else. He leaned forward and placed a light hand on the paper, just next to Bucky's.

“We were just screwing around. I was frustrated: couldn't track down any of the leads Tony got me, and heard some whispers that just made it-”

“You had leads?”

Now Bucky was visibly hurt, though it just came out as a sullen pout. He snatched the paper back up and held it to him, staring down at it. His pout deepened.

“You had leads from Tony. And went to Russia with him.”

“We didn't go together,” Steve explained. “I went. By myself. Because they were _barely_ leads and I figured one man traveling around Russia was less conspicuous than two. And let's face it: you know more people there than I do. You have a higher chance—even just slightly—of running into someone who knows you.” 

Bucky's pout had eased at the first thing Steve had said, that he and Tony hadn't gone together. Steve sighed and rubbed his face. Maybe he needed to put an end to him and Tony's little games, if it was starting to hurt those close to them. A little bit of harmless fun stopped being fun when it stopped being harmless.

Catching Bucky's eye, Steve spoke deliberately: “I already told you once that there's nothing... nothing like that between Tony and I. I'm not gay. _He's_ not gay. We're just... trying to sort ourselves back out.”

Steve didn't need to remind Bucky of the months following the return of his memory and emancipation from the Red Room. Things had taken time to heal between them at the time; and when they had settled back into each other's lives, it wasn't the same as before. They were different people, with a different friendship. It was the same for himself and Tony. Steve just hoped Bucky could understand that.

After a moment Bucky nodded. His eyes were still steely, but he didn't breathe another word about it.

“So. Then how was Russia?”

Steve laughed.

“Unfruitful,” he admitted after a moment. 

Standing up, Steve bustled about his kitchen to get Bucky a coffee and some eggs—even if he hadn't accepted Steve's offer for them—as he explained. “I was getting all the data Tony managed to compile for me ready to send to you this morning. The short of it is that he managed to find five known associates of Zola moving around Russia in the past year. Using the five of them, he was able to narrow down the location of Zola's base of operations to about a one million square kilometer area in Siberia.” The eggs were frying in the pan as Steve pulled a mug from the cabinet next to the sink and filled it with still-hot coffee from the pot.

Bucky snorted as Steve set the mug of coffee in front of him. “Remind me to send him a fruit basket.”

Steve's lips tightened as he turned back to the eggs, frying them up quickly. “It's something to go on. And more than we had before.”

Steve might have set the plate of fried eggs down in front of Bucky with a little too much force. Bucky just huffed in amusement and stared up at Steve, fork twirling in his biological hand. “You wanna explain to me again how you and Tony aren't fucking?”

“We're not. I'd think I'd remember if we were,” Steve pointed out. “It's kind of a hard thing to miss.” He paused for a second, thinking. His mind brought up decidedly unarousing images of a “hard” Tony Stark. Steve shuddered as he took his seat at the table back across from Bucky. “No pun intended.”

Bucky muttered something into his eggs that any normal man would have missed. But Steve could almost hear the words. Something that sounded like “experts at” “denial” and “both of you.” Steve made a decision to ignore the nearly inaudible words.

After a minute of chewing on eggs and swallowing mouthfuls of coffee, Bucky glanced back up at Steve. “Well?” he asked.

Steve blinked. “'Well' what?”

Bucky shrugged, sat back in his chair. “What's the play?” 

For a moment Steve thought about this. What _was_ the play when it came to Zola? They had precious little information to go on: just enough to know Zola was up to something and needed to be stopped, but not enough to actually go about the stopping. Still. Steve rolled his shoulders back and sat up straighter in his chair. Still: a man like Zola couldn't be allowed to run around free, plotting more nefarious evils. Whatever he was up to, he would end up hurting people. Even putting aside the fact that he needed to be held accountable for his past crimes. 

“Let's look at what we know,” Steve thought aloud.

“Yeah, this'll be enlightening,” Bucky grumbled.

Steve ignored him. “Zola's at work on something in Russia. Amongst his company are a bio-engineer, a CEO of a genetics firm (GMO's in specific), a gene therapist, a virologist, and a high-ranking ex-general from a people's army.”

Bucky sipped his coffee. “So he's doing something with genetics. Could have told you that.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, thinking. “But he's doing something with genetics... that he can't do. That he needs these other experts' help in. But what can those men and women do that he can't? What information do they bring to the table that he doesn't have?”

Bucky shrugged. “Hell if I know, I'm not a scientist. Why don't you ask your butt-buddy Stark?”

Steve's eyes narrowed. “One of these days I'm going to deck you for comments like that.”

Bucky grinned. “I'd like to see you try.” He flexed his robot arm significantly. 

Steve's face split into a grin and he shook his head, chuckling. Bucky could be a real brat sometimes, but he was still one of Steve's closest friends.

“Besides,” Steve said, “Tony's no geneticist. But I bet Dr. McCoy could help me put some of the pieces together.”

“And while you're mucking around with the nerds, maybe me and Nat'll head out ourselves to see what we can dig up.”

Nerves flared inside Steve's chest, but he pushed the flash of anxiety down. He knew Bucky and Natasha could take care of themselves, especially in Russia. But for exactly the same reason that he shouldn't be worried—that it was _Russia—_ Steve _was_ worried. Bucky and Natasha could be recognized, could be hunted down and captured and dragged back to whatever remnants of the Red Room remained. Of course, the fact that they knew more people in Russia than Steve was one more reason why they should be going: because they had more contacts, because they knew more secret haunts and underground routes and blackmarket connections. 

“If you think it would be beneficial,” he replied slowly.

Bucky just leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Hey, you get a Russian vacation with your girlfriend, now I want one with mine.”

Steve decided to let that comment go. Instead, he turned the conversation to Natasha, asking Bucky how things were. They finished the rest of the breakfast companionably, and Steve did his best to ignore the worrying at his gut over Bucky and Natasha going to Russia to investigate Zola. He knew the worry was entirely irrational, but he couldn't help it. “Mother-henning”, Tony would call it.

As Bucky got up to leave, Steve tried to hand the tabloid back to him. Bucky just smirked and held his hands up. “I don't want to see that. Once was enough. Keep it: hang it on the fridge. Maybe make a copy for the bedroom.” Bucky left with a wink and a smirk, slipping almost silently out the apartment door. 

Steve glanced down at the tabloid crumpled in his hand. He opened it up again, getting a good look at it. They definitely appeared to be up to _something_. Steve groaned and tossed the paper in his kitchen trashcan. He really needed to avoid being around Tony Stark when there were cameras about. It just wasn't working out for him recently.

* * *

Tony wandered into the kitchen at Avengers Tower, blinking code from his eyes. There was the armor running more checks against some of the public blueprints he had dragged up of his buildings and trying to figure out exactly how much of the hardware set up had been stolen from there, or at least had been able to be stolen from there, and how much the people who duplicated it would have had to reverse-engineer on their own. If he could-

“Why are you playing gay chicken with Steve?”

Tony jumped about a foot out of his shoes. Oh. Except he wasn't wearing shoes. Very deliberately, Tony brought himself back into himself. One by one he shut down external Extremis systems, until there was just the gentle hum of the armor in his bones and WiFi tickling at the back of his head. He blinked again, taking in the kitchen. 

Carol was pointing a green shake at him.

“What the hell is that?”

“Kale,” Carol growled. “Now it's my turn: why are you playing gay chicken with Steve?”

It was morning. Tony blinked as he realized that. It was morning and Carol was eating breakfast in Avengers Tower. Tony had been working on the armor all night, trying to figure it out. Thought maybe he might have missed something. Nothing had made itself obvious, though. Not yet. But, first thing's first:

“Why are you even here for breakfast? Don't you have your own apartment, Danvers?”

“I was out of kale,” Carol said flatly.

“You were out of kale.”

“Yes.”

“So instead of going down to the _store_ , you came _here_ to make your breakfast.”

“No, I went to the store. And then while I was waiting to check out, I see this in the tabloid rack.” In one smooth movement Carol slapped a tabloid down on the kitchen counter in front of her. Tony leaned forward to look at it. It was. Oh. _How did they get that photo_? Tony pulled up his email and sent one to Pepper, ordering whichever stewardess had snapped that photo to immediately be fired. That was in clear violation of her nondisclosure agreement. 

And wow, did that look compromising. If Tony hadn't lost the ability to blush years ago, he might be doing it now. The way Steve was _stalking_ toward him... Oh, shit. Steve. Rapidly Tony opened up another email document in his mind, then... stopped. What was he supposed to say? 'Don't look at the papers'? 'Sorry'? It was Steve's fault, after all. Tony closed the mental email document and made a note to talk to Steve later. Preferably in person. 

“So I'll ask you again: Why are you playing gay chicken with Steve?”

Tony took a small amount of offense to that, now that he took a second to think about Carol's accusation. “Why do you assume that's what I'm doing? Why couldn't we just be... uh. Fucking?”

“Because you're too emotionally insecure to say the word 'boyfriend' in even a hypothetical conversation when it comes to Steve. You're too insecure about everything when it comes to Steve.” Carol frowned down into her shake. “We all are.” Then her expression hardened and she pointed the shake at Tony. “But _you_. If you and Steve ever got your head's out of your own asses long enough to start getting other parts into each _other's_ asses, you wouldn't be this... normal.”

“Normal.”

Carol took a sip of the shake. “Honestly, I wouldn't be shocked if a serious attempt to date Steve ended with you hitting the bottle.”

Tony's lips tightened. Fuck Carol.

But the other woman was looking at him way too knowingly for Tony's liking.

“Steve's impossible, you know,” she said. “And, yeah, you know. Of course you know how impossible he is. He's perfect. His good-with-a-capital-G. But you know what else he is?”

Tony shook his head. He could think of a lot of other things Steve was, but he wasn't sure where Carol was going with this, so he let her continue.

“He's an asshole,” she said sharply. “He's a control freak. He's uncompromising and impossibly unsympathetic. _Empathetic_ , yes, to a fault. But not sympathetic. He can't bring himself to see a different perspective on this, understand why someone might make the decisions they did if they appear clearly wrong to Steve from his own perspective. _You_ know this, Tony. You know this better than all of us.”

Tony swallowed down bile, ducking his eyes away from Carol as he tried to control their sudden stinging. “Are you just going to sit here and insult Steve in front of me all day, or do you have a point?”

“If you were fucking Steve, if you thought he'd be interested in fucking you, you'd be sabotaging the whole thing from the start. Because that's what you two always do. You're good for each other for a peaceful stretch of time: you manage to temper down Steve's controlling nature by being a constant antagonist to him, brashly refusing to do whatever it was he would prefer you to. And vice versa. He- He's Steve. He makes all of us try to be better, just by walking into the room.” Carol's eyes were sorrowful. Tony was familiar with that expression of self-loathing, but not normally from this perspective. 

Carol continued. “But then, as soon as something actual tests your relationship, you two break up. _Immediately_. Without bothering to even try to see eye-to-eye.”

“We try- _I've_ tried!”

Carol silenced him with a single heated glare. “Not enough. And he hasn't, either. So if you two were doing something, you'd both already be cutting around running.”

“Does this sermon have a point?”

“Why are you playing gay chicken with Steve?”

Tony sneered at Carol. “Maybe he's playing it with me.”

“For fuck's sake Stark, you're both playing it. I know what gay chicken looks like.”

This conversation wasn't going well. And was too complicated for Tony's mind after a night of staring at simple, beautiful armor schematics. He decided his best course of action might be to change tack. 

“Oh do you? Play it often? With Jess, right. Please tell me it's Jess. Loving the visual.”

“Women can't play gay chicken.”

“What? Why-”

Carol held up a finger. “One, we don't have inhibitions about feelings and touching like you idiots do.” She held up another. “Two, way too likely that whoever you're playing with will take it too far.”

Tony's eyes widened at that. Nice. But Carol's expression hadn't lightened, so Tony shut down his reaction, fast. 

A headache was coming on. A psychosomatic one, since technically Tony couldn't get “real” headaches anymore. Tony grimaced and rubbed his temples, sliding his fingers over his forehead to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It's just fun. Steve's in on it, I'm in on it, nobody's _feelings_ are getting hurt, we're good. It's just...” Tony decided to try honesty, just a little bit, if it meant Carol would leave him alone. He looked straight at her: “It's just a way for us to get right with each other again.”

Carol's expression softened, just a bit. Tony breathed a sigh of relief. Okay. That was probably enough to placate her. Not that Tony should _have_ to placate her, or anyone else. Wasn't there anybody else's personal business that the Avengers could collectively stick their noses into? Why Tony's? First Pepper, then Carol. Who was next, Hank Pym? Reed Richards want to weigh in on Tony's relationship with Steve?

“Just one thing, Tony? I know I'm not the person to go to for this sort of advice.” Carol rolled her eyes at herself, expression rueful. “But then again, I probably have the least fucked-up relationships of any of you lot. Quantity-wise, at least,” she grumbled. “So let me say just this: It's good to have you two as friends again. The Avengers are never the same when you're fighting. Just. Don't take it too far. And don't even _start_ ,” she growled, shoving a finger in Tony's face. He clicked his mouth shut, swallowing the defense he had started to mount for himself. “Don't even _start_ , because you _always do_. So this time, just... keep an eye out, okay? You don't know what Steve's thinking, even if you _think_ you do with that big smart-guy brain of yours. You take this too far, make it seem too serious... Steve might get hurt. And even without your smart-guy brain, I can still figure out that that's the last thing you want: to hurt Steve.”

Tony ran a hand over his mouth, short hairs of his goatee bristling under his fingertips. He sighed. “You started out, I thought you were trying to protect me from Steve. Now sounds like you're trying to protect Steve from me. Pick a side, Carol.”

Carol just raised an eyebrow and picked up her shake. “I'd run what you just said through that smart-guy brain of yours, Tony. Think about it.”

Tony frowned. That just contradicted _more_ of what she said. If she was trying to protect them both from each other—like she just implied—then why would she have said earlier that they were _good_ for each other? Tony pushed it all aside. Who knew what went on in the minds of women.

Tony flinched, then abruptly remembered that Carol wasn't Emma and couldn't read his mind. Her eyes still narrowed at him like she could.

Before Carol could swallow her mouthful of that disgusting green sludge she was pounding back like it was single malt scotch, alarms blared around them. Immediately the suit came out from Tony, wrapping around him in a safe cocoon. Tony was up and out the retractable window in the same moment Carol was, transformed into her combat leotard. 

“Tony?” Bucky's voice was in his ear. 

Tony blinked in shock, but recovered quickly enough. “Yeah?”

“This one's for you. Another armor attack. See what you can tell us.”

Inside the helmet, Tony grimaced. With a simple mental command he pushed more power to his thrusters, ignoring the way Carol increased her speed accordingly and kept up alongside him. “I'm on it,” he replied.

* * *

The fight had just begun as Tony and Carol whipped into the air above the chaos. Armored robots were wrecking havoc, knocking over street lamps, crunching sidewalk under their metal feet, chasing down screaming citizens who fled in their wake. A map of the city was in front of Tony's eyes before he even thought about it, overlaying where they were with the side streets and major landmarks that he couldn't see thanks to the density of buildings all around them. 

“What are they after?” he growled. “There's nothing _here_.”

“Bank,” Carol pointed out. She had already whizzed away from Tony, red sash fluttering madly as her body cut through the air. Two armored bots that were airborne dropped thanks to two well-placed energy blasts.

Tony glanced to his side, observing the bank on the street. It looked like every other bank, and yeah... Tony's mind skimmed through the statistics that it had already pulled up for him. Yeah, there was nothing special about the bank. No odd transactions, no more money than any other bank in the area, no supervillain activity, past present or future, no interesting names attached to the safety deposit boxes, or pseudonyms. It was just a bank. And the armors didn't even look like they were really going after it: just kind of. There. Incidentally.

This was just a test run. Another one. Tony growled and started after the nearest set of armors, taking them down with a single batch of targeted blasts. They were tougher, this time: it was taking more to bring them to the ground than it was last time. And some supervillain wannabe was endangering New York citizens' lives just to test that out. Tony opened a new file in his mind and started to fill it with things he would do to this asshole once he caught him. It wasn't a Safe For Work folder.

A shout behind him. Tony spun, armor blinking hundreds or a thousand different pieces of data at him, so much so that he couldn't process them all. There was something important, something his systems were putting together that he hadn't consciously picked up on yet... but there. Another shout, and more, words this time coming over the comms:

“It's not _motor oil_!” Carol was shouting.

“I'm calling him,” Sam shot back.

“I fucking know what motor oil looks like and-”

“ _That's why I'm calling him!_ ”

Tony's focus wrenched away from whatever his subconscious was picking up on and turned wholly on the fight. Carol and Sam were shouting at each other, holding an armor up and... Was that blood?

Tony was on the street with them before he even thought the action. Sam and Carol were holding up the damaged armor, and yeah, there was definitely blood. Blood that was coming from the _armor_.

“It's blood,” Tony gasped. 

“Tony!” Bucky's voice barked over the comm link. “Tony, what the fuck is going on? Are there people in these? Are these things _alive_?” 

“I don't know.” Tony's mind was buzzing, he couldn't concentrate. There were a thousand data points he just couldn't put together. The thing was organic, but it wasn't, but it was. There was blood and some sort of power system but it read like a circulatory system but it was pulsing through the _armor_ it wasn't _inside_ the armor like he was but was it sentient there were brain waves but they had a different electrical signature from normal brainwaves but that didn't mean they weren't _conscious_.

“Tony! I need a decision!”

The urgency in Bucky's voice wasn't enough to pull Tony back into himself. He had to figure something out, some sort of non-lethal solution to temporary disable the armor units just in case they _were_ alive, if there were people as inextricably tied into the armor as... as, well, as _he_ was. Tony gasped, running through his options, coming up with an idea and discarding it in the same second.

“Tony!” Bucky's voice again, that annoying _fucking voice_ and it wasn't _right_. He might be “Captain America”, but he wasn't _Cap._ “Tony, EMP? Will it take them out long enough for-”

“No.” The noise that came out of Tony's mouth was more a strangled groan than a word, but he couldn't divert enough of his attention to be worried about that just now. No, it wouldn't work. If whatever biological systems in the armor were somehow connected into the electrical systems, an EMP could kill them. If they were alive, if there was anything sentient and living about the armors that could be killed. 

The bio signatures _were_ integrated into the mechanics of the machine, too: that was one of the problems Tony was having with getting a read on these things. They weren't _reading_ like armor with people inside, mechanical systems separate from biological systems. They were reading like _him_ , and that was horrifying. This wasn't a matter of reverse-engineering tech: this was a matter of... of reverse-engineering _him_. Tony felt sick, nauseous, from the amount of data he was trying to process and the facts it was coming together to form. The battle raged on around him, and he was in it, he was still fighting and firing non-lethal repulsor blasts at anything that came too close, but none of it was enough to break through the chaos of his mind, to ground him.

“Tony!”

Tony's head snapped around. _That_ voice was. _That_ voice was _right_.

Steve Rogers came speeding into the fray on his motorbike. Tony's eyes widened as Steve jumped off the bike, letting it slide sideways and pinning an armor unit against the wall. The armor shuddered and went still, cleaved in two by the bike. 

Blood dripped down from the wound onto Steve's bike. Tony's brain started to shout again, all the data vying for attention at once. It felt like he was in the center of a beehive, millions of drones buzzing inside his skull, impossible to follow a single one through a cohesive flight path. Tony squeezed his eyes shut inside the armor and tried to process it all.

“Tony!” Cap's voice again. Tony's eyes shot open to see Steve wrestling with an armor unit, arms wrapped impossibly tight around it, holding the metal man in place by sheer force of will. In a second Tony was at his front, dodging a stray repulsor blast from the struggling armor in Steve's grip. In one easy movement Tony reached a hand out and disabled the repulsor port on the armor, crippling its offensive systems while keeping it alive. If it was alive. Which was exactly what Tony needed to figure out. 

“I can't hold this long,” Steve grunted. His face was screwed up with exertion, tendons in his forearms and biceps straining wrapped as they were around the armor.

Tony blinked. The faceplate retracted without thought. Steve was in front of him, staring him down. 

“I need you to figure this out, Tony,” Steve ordered. “Right now. No time to steal one away and tinker for a few days. Are. These. Alive?”

Tony slowed down. Closed his eyes. Opened them. Steve was still in front of him, the solidness of his form an anchor in the sea of information. Tony held onto it, reaching out and touching Steve's forearm for a moment as he closed his eyes and dove under once more. He lifted the hand from Steve's arm and dove into the armor unit in front of him, fingers flying over the front, panels and wires and systems all coming apart under Tony's physical and mental touch. 

“It's blood,” Tony confirmed. One piece at a time. He could do this. “It's blood, it's similar to human blood. Modified.” Breathe in, breathe out. Tony sifted aside that information and let a trickle more of data bubble to the surface. “It has a circulatory system. But it's... It's not wholly organic.”

“Okay,” Steve's voice broke through. Tony opened his eyes and were met by the sight of Steve's, staring calmly at him. Even though his body was straining, even though the armor was fighting against him with everything it had, Steve was waiting. Patiently. Distantly Tony realized the fight was still going on around them: Bucky was shouting orders, Carol and Sam had flown away to keep the armor units contained. The sounds of the Avengers trying to keep the armors from causing any more collateral damage while not mortally damaging them might have been loud around them, but Tony wasn't really hearing it. Not over the sound of the data buzzing through his brain, and Steve's steady voice at his front.

“Okay,” Steve repeated. “They're not guys in suits. They're robots with blood. Tony: are they alive?”

“Not much.” The words were out of Tony even before he knew the truth himself. But then he backtracked, thought through the information that had led his mouth to say so. It was a little alive. The armors were running off blood. But blood was their electrical system, their batteries. They had non-organic brains. The electrical signals the brains were giving off were vaguely human, but it was because they were running vaguely human systems. There was blood and some kind of circulatory system, but it was--

“Just a battery,” Tony breathed. “The blood. The organic systems. It's. It's organic, but it's an armor, Steve:” Tony met Steve's eyes, _actually_ met them, saw them clearly through all the data fading from his sight. “They're just armors. They're armors running off blood, kind of. Just. They're not alive. Parts. Not the whole.”

“Are you sure?”

Tony could see the history behind the question in Steve's eyes. All those moments when Steve had to trust his judgement on something like this, and Tony had failed him.

“It's not like that,” Tony replied quickly. Everything was so clear now, it was so easy to see. Now that all the data was parsed properly and stored in the proper caches, it was clear. Easy. Tony grinned at Steve, relief easing his expression.

“It's not like that,” he repeated. “Nothing like that. I'm sure. It's swapping batteries. It's bio-fuels instead of wires. No more alive than a hunk of hot dog in a lab.”

Steve's eyes met his, considering. The robot in his arms struggled. Tony waited, breath held, as he watched Steve weighing his words against his own morals. Tony waited, expecting to find himself wanting.

In one smooth movement Steve reached up and ripped the armor's head clean from its body. Blood sprayed everywhere, eerily similar to arterial blood. Tony's eyes went wide at the sight, then relaxed and grinned. Steve grinned back, blood dripping down his face. It should probably be a lot weirder than it was, but it wasn't. 

“That's the call.” Steve pressed a hand to his ear, speaking into the comms. “These things are not alive. Repeat: not alive. Treat them as you would any hostile robots.” His eyes met Tony's above a cocky grin. Tony felt his own lips twisting up in a matching expression. “Take 'em down.”

Around them the Avengers exploded in a flurry of action. Blood and metal screeched down from the skies as Sam and Carol did their part with the airborne units. Bucky's voice came over the comms, loud and annoyed: “Does anybody remember that _I'm_ supposed to be in charge here?!”

Steve winked at Tony. “Technically I think I'm in charge,” he pointed out. Tony resisted slapping an armor-covered hand to his mouth to hide a grin, but only barely.

“It's not your team, Rogers,” Bucky growled back. “ _Or_ Stark's.”

With one last grin at Steve, Tony let the faceplate slap back down on his armor. Firing up his boosters, he glanced around the battle, eager to dive back in with the rest of them. _There_. A cluster chasing Spiderman, getting tangled in his webs. Down but not out. Tony could help change that. As Tony whipped past Steve he shouted “Remind me to get on my knees and thank you later!”

Sputtering over the comms. Tony tapped into one of the security cameras near Steve—firing repulsor blasts at the armors hardly took his full attention, especially now that he knew he could go for kill shots—to see what was the source of the noise. Steve was blushing bright red and glancing around with a faintly horrified expression. It took Tony a moment to replay back what he had just said. When he realized the source of Steve's embarrassment, he grinned.

One, two, three, four, five, six of the armors, down with six rapid-fire blasts. Took all of two seconds. Tony grinned and did a loop in midair, heading back to the center of the skirmish. The robots weren't alive and no citizens were getting hurt. Today was a good day: he felt safe to press his luck.

“Cap, darling: now's not the time to get _shy_. Not after everything you showed off to me on my plane.”

Steve was already doing his best to ignore Tony: throwing himself back into the fray, taking out armor units with his gun and bare hands, when that failed him. But Tony could tell that he was still flustered by the way his body was angling in his direction, even when it wasn't the best position for Steve to be in.

“Stark, I swear to _fucking God_ ,” Bucky growled. “Get your head in the game or I'll-”

It only took a second to locate Bucky, pinned down by three armor units against a wrecked car but making steady progress with them. He managed to take out one and had the other one off its guard when Tony flew in and blasted the remaining two to bits.

“You'll what?” Tony smirked. “Take out an eighth of the baddies I do?”

He spun around and darted off again, taking out two more armors that were coming up behind Steve. He grinned and landed in front of Steve, sliding the faceplate back with a wink. “Or are you just jealous that I'm stealing your boyfriend away from you?”

“By the way,” Tony said, just to Steve. “I think that's a point for me.”

Before Steve could reply there was a crash and an explosion. Blood showered over Steve and Tony, both men thrown back several feet in opposite directions. Tony blinked and righted himself, staring over at the armor that had impacted directly between the two of them. He grunted something unintelligible.

“Sorry to break you two up!” Carol buzzed past the two men, already chasing after another pack of armor units. The sarcasm in her voice was not lost on Tony, even given how fast she was moving and the way the wind tried to eat her words.

Steve's head popped up across the pavement from Tony, on the other side of the downed armor. His hair was matted down awkwardly, little tufts sticking out at random intervals. It would almost be cute, if it weren't for the thick red blood covering about eighty percent of his body. 

Tony waved cheerily at Steve from his still-prone position on the pavement. Steve glowered at him and jumped to his feet.

“Why don't you listen to Bucky and get your head back in the game?” he growled. Then he was off, jumping onto car roofs and taking down an armor unit with what seemed to be every step. 

Awkwardly Tony pushed himself to his feet, very suddenly feeling deflated. All the fun went out of blowing holes into squishy, blood-spewing armors if Steve was grouchy with him. But why the change in attitude? An armor started toward Tony, offensive systems unleashing a flurry of repulsor blasts and bullets. Casually Tony shot a hole clean through its chest and flew away. He had to find Steve and fix whatever he just managed to break. Even if he didn't know exactly what was wrong.

Steve was taking down two armors at once, ducking beneath them and slamming them into each other. They were wounded but active when Tony got there, so he took them out with two quick blasts to the chest. Steve ignored him and kept moving, looking for the next fight. 

“Hey, hey.” Tony skittered to a landing in front of Steve, holding his hands out in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but probably just looked vaguely threatening with the repulsors embedded in his palms. Still, Steve didn't even flinch. He just sighed and paused in his movements, waiting for Tony to say his piece.

Another armor was thrown down dangerously close to them. Without even looking up Tony flipped Carol off. She thought he was going to fuck things up, Tony knew it. Which, considering Steve's sudden negative reaction to him, might have been a fair assessment of Tony's inability to maintain stable relationships. 

Still at a loss of what to say, Tony flipped up his faceplate and tried looking serious and concerned. It seemed to work, at least a little, because Steve uncrossed his arms and relaxed.

“Hey, what's up? You know-” An armor unit came annoyingly close to the two of them, firing at Steve's unprotected side. Growling, Tony fired a repulsor blast through its center. It dropped in a spray of blood. Tony stepped closer to Steve. “You know I'm just fucking around, right?”

Bucky's voice crackled over the line. “You're having this conversation _now_?”

Steve growled and tugged the comm unit out of his ear. Tony mentally did the same with the comm built into his armor, switching it off transmitting. 

“It's not the time and place, Tony. For shenanigans like that.”

“I didn't even mean it,” Tony pointed out. “I just... said it. And then you went red and I had to push my advantage.”

Steve grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. “I was caught off-guard.”

Tony stayed silent for a pointed five seconds. Then he held up one armor-covered finger and said: “See, right there? Restraint. Didn't make any innuendo about that.”

And there was a smile, slowly creasing Steve's face. Tony grinned back, a knot of tension easing in his chest. 

“Maybe not in public?” Tony suggested. He was willing to meet Steve halfway.

Steve seemed to consider that, nodding slowly. But then, just as he started to turn away and head back into the fight, Steve called out over his shoulder: “Guess I'll have to indulge my exhibitionism streak with someone else.”

Tony spluttered as Steve hurried away, leaping and rolling gracefully as he engaged another armor unit. Grinning, Tony let his faceplate slam back down and flew over to Steve. He blasted the armor unit before Steve could land a killing blow, then wiggled his fingers in a little wave as he flew past. Steve grinned, and it was _on_.

The battle was over shortly after that, with cleanup being the only thing left to do. Tony ran his armor through its self-cleaning process to get all the wet and congealed blood off it, but then sat back and watched as SHIELD lackeys and the kid Avengers took care of the rest of the clean-up. Girl-Hawkeye was arguing with Clint over something across the street from Tony, and he watched the display with growing amusement. She kept kicking an armor at their feet which was pierced with an arrow and gesturing wildly. Far from being amused himself, Clint appeared chastised, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to get a word in edgewise before the girl started yelling again and he snapped his mouth shut. By the time she stomped off Clint was scuffing his shoes on the ground and had his hands shoved in his pockets. Tony made a note to promote her to full Avenger sometime shortly. And to be there when Clint heard the news.

Steve trotted over a minute later, still covered in blood from head to toe. He gestured at a small, SHIELD-issue U-Haul that was getting loaded with bloodied armor remains. “I'm having SHIELD drop off a sample at Stark Resilient headquarters.”

“You always take care of me,” Tony teased. Then he winced, remembering their deal. “Er.”

But Steve just rolled his eyes and pulled his mask back from his face. His blonde hair stuck up in all directions, anywhere that it wasn't matted to his face with blood. 

“That's just the normal garbage that comes out of your mouth, Tony,” Steve pointed out. Then he held up a finger and glared at Tony warningly. “But whatever you're about to say about 'your mouth' and things which 'come out' of it crosses the line.”

Tony grinned, loose and easy. “Got it. Loud and clear.” 

An agent shouted for Steve back where they were loading armor units into the truck. Steve glanced over his shoulder, frowned, then turned back to Tony. He jerked his head back at the agent. “I gotta...”

“Hey.” Tony stepped forward, let the armor slide back from his skin. He pressed his unarmored hand to Steve's bicep and looked him straight in the eye. “Everything's good, yeah?”

Steve's rueful smile was answer enough, but he still replied. “Yeah, Tony. Just. Tired of people talking, you know?”

Tony snorted. “Yeah, been getting an earful about not offending your delicate sensibilities. You too?”

“Yeah.” Steve confirmed. Then he laughed and backed up. “Well. Not about offending your 'delicate sensibilities.' But. Same line of thought.”

“But _we're_ good, right?” Tony needed the confirmation. Carol's warning was still ringing fresh in his ears, echoing around the chambers of his mind. “If we're not, if you're-”

“ _Tony_.” Steve's hand came up to grip Tony's shoulder, their body language mirroring each other. He ducked his head, just a little, to look into his eyes. “If I wasn't okay with this, I'd end it. Are...” Steve hesitated, eyes flickering between his searchingly. “Are you okay? With...?”

“I'm fine, Cap,” Tony replied. He snorted at the idea that Steve would think he was uncomfortable with what they were doing. If anyone, it was Steve who Tony had to worry about. If he would be okay with this kind of teasing, if there weren't some heavier emotions tangled up in everything. Tony, Tony was easy. Tony was having fun and pushing Steve's buttons. Everything was SOP for Tony.

“Sir?”

Steve turned back at the call, grimacing when he made eye contact with the SHIELD agents who were milling around, looking like lost puppies. He sighed and nodded at Tony. 

“Let me know if you find out anything interesting,” he requested.

Tony raised two fingers to his forehead in mock-salute and watched Steve hurry away.

Carol was just overly sensitive, Tony decided. He and Steve were fine. Better than ever, in fact. It was with this thought firmly in mind that Tony was able to fly away, back to Stark Resilient as he waited for the delivery of this new mystery to poke and prod and solve.

 


	6. Chapter 5

 

If there had been a door to the kitchen, Steve would have slammed it off its hinges. As it was, the layout of the Avengers Tower common areas was very open, and Steve ended up much less dramatically skidding into the kitchen and looking around furiously. His eyes landed on Natasha and Bucky immediately, curled in close to each other at the far counter, talking in low tones.

“Bucky,” Steve breathed. He gathered the other man into his arms immediately, eyes trained on Natasha even as he tactually confirmed his friend's relative good-health. Natasha eyed him back, bruise under one eye and laceration over the opposite eyebrow stark against her pale skin. Steve sighed and buried his face in Bucky's shoulder before gently releasing him, just enough to get a good look at him. His face was unblemished, but when he pulled back, Steve couldn't miss the careful way he moved. 

Without a word Steve started tugging at Bucky's shirt, looking for the wound. Bucky pulled away gently and met his eyes. “Through-and-through the shoulder.”

Steve's gut tied itself in knots, even though the danger was passed. Still, he put on a brave face. “They couldn't have taken a shot at the other one?”

Bucky grinned. “You're telling me.”

“What happened?”

Natasha moved then, slipping quietly passed them toward the exit of the kitchen. She turned he head, ever so slightly, back at them. “Not here.”

Obligingly Steve and Bucky followed her out of the kitchen and through Avengers Tower. Steve kept one hand grazing Bucky's biological elbow as they walked, mindful of the wounded shoulder and wishing he could have done more. Tony would have told him it was irrational to feel guilty about Bucky's injuries, but Steve didn't think it was. If Bucky and Natasha had gotten injured, then they had found information. Information that he hadn't found himself when he had gone to Russia. That mean that if he had been better—smarter, more thorough, more focused on finding Zola and taking down his operations—he'd be the one in the dust-up. Bucky and Natasha wouldn't have even had to go over there, to that country which had already taken enough from them, if Steve had been better somehow. It was reasonable to feel guilty, in Steve's estimate.

Natasha had led them to her rooms, Steve only realized when they were standing in front of her front door. Steve politely turned his head as she flashed her Avengers ID and entered a passcode that would let them into the first set of rooms Natasha possessed.

She stopped when they were inside, leading them no further into her apartment. The way Natasha had her rooms set up was like a series of Russian nesting dolls. An atrium with a comfortable sitting area for discussing private matters, where they were now. It was furnished with couches and chairs, as well as a small wet bar, but nothing more. It was where Natasha went when she needed privacy, but for business, not pleasure. The second series of rooms that Steve knew was past the next door was when she wanted to have guests over. He knew it had a kitchen, small living area, and dinning area. He had been invited into that second level of intimacy before by Bucky and Natasha, for dinner and conversation.

There were more doors beyond that, but Steve didn't know what was behind them. Theoretically there was a bedroom somewhere, which Bucky had visited. Steve had wondered, fleetingly, if Natasha had a series of rooms that even Bucky hadn't seen. An inner sanctum, a most private of areas, where Natasha could retreat to when she wanted and keep known only to herself. Steve didn't begrudge her the urge. When a person had been laid bare like she had, the innermost areas of herself been penetrated and scooped out as the Red Room had done, Steve understood the need to establish privacy after something like that. 

“What happened?” Steve asked again.

Natasha's eyes slid to Bucky, then back to Steve. “Zola doesn't know we were there. We made it look like inter-office fight. Like the hired goons got sticky fingers during a money drop and there was an equitable exchange of lead.”

Steve huffed. “I didn't mean that. I wasn't-” He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair in frustration. He didn't care if Zola knew, so long as the two of them were okay. It was good news, of course it was, that their cover hadn't been blown, but that was far from the most important thing Steve needed to know.

Bucky took his turn, stepping forward slightly. “Zola's definitely active again. I'll get you a report on everything we found out, but the basics are that he's building something.”

“Kidnappings?” Steve asked. 

“No.”

Steve frowned at Bucky, surprised. That was good to hear, of course, that people hadn't started being reported missing from the countryside or the homeless population. But it was strange. That was Zola's normal MO: build up somewhere to work—usually funded by the Red Skull, but obviously not this time—kidnap some people who won't be missed, or even some who would, and start performing his mad experiments. 

Something occurred to Steve: “Do you think because he's not working for the Skull that he's trying something different?”

Bucky shrugged—his robotic shoulder, not his biological one. “Could be. Could be he's trying to figure a way to actually succeed this time. Maybe the dumb bastard is finally getting smart.”

“So what _is_ he doing?”

Natasha didn't step forward, but she somehow gave off the impression that she had. “Hiring. Geneticists. Engineers. Accountants. Laborers.”

Irritation welled up in Steve's chest, but he quickly clamped it down. “I knew that weeks ago,” he pointed out. Didn't do as good a job at repressing the irritation as he had thought. He kept his voice level and continued. “Tony gathered as much from the dashcams.”

Bucky shook his head. “We got some more. I'll get you files on them, but this operation is big. More people than Tony was able to pick up. And we narrowed the location. A hundred thousand square miles.”

Steve let out a breath. _That_ was big. That was great news, significant progress. 

“Anything else?”

“Patents.” Natasha spoke up again. She glanced at Bucky. “He'll get you all the specifics, but he's patenting genetic sequences. Gene therapies, too. My sources are under the impression that what he's patenting isn't significant to his current work, but rather a way to bankroll the operation. But you can have Dr. McCoy or someone else look over the patents and give you their opinion.”

Steve nodded. He'd do that. He'd been planning on it, but he hadn't much more than a series of people and their supposed specializations. Now he had something real to bring to Hank, something that wouldn't just be a waste of time. 

“Thank you.” Steve made sure to meet both their eyes in turn, making clear how sincere he was. “You didn't have to do this-”

Bucky grimaced. “If it's Zola, trust me: I have to. It's not about you. It's about stopping this asshole from hurting anyone.”

“Anyone else,” Natasha murmured. Her eyes were completely devoid of emotion, which was a tell in itself. She tilted her chin up and met Steve's eyes. “No kidnappings, so far. Which is good news.”

Steve nodded. It was, of course it was. But it was confusing, and meant Zola was up to something else. It was hard to know if it was worse or better, just yet. He wouldn't be able to know until he saw the entirety of Zola's mad plan laid out before him. At the moment, all he knew was Zola needed to be stopped before he unleashed whatever ungodly genetic experiment he was conscripting all these men and women to produce into the world. 

Natasha dropped her gave from Steve's and turned to Bucky. Steve politely averted his gaze as they exchanged glances, a conversation held through tense eyebrows and tightened lips. At the end of it, Natasha walked away and through the second door in her apartment, leaving the two men to show themselves out. Steve took her exit as a request to do just that, so he left, holding the door open for Bucky to follow behind him.

“You're really okay?” Steve asked once they were walking through the main halls of the Tower.

That familiar cocksure grin quirked at the corners of Bucky's mouth. Lightly he touched two metal fingertips to his right shoulder. “Had worse. Looks like I get to keep the arm, at least.”

Steve smirked and smacked Bucky's robotic shoulder. “Numbskull,” he grumbled.

They were in the living room of the Tower, now, and no one else was in sight. With a sigh Bucky grabbed himself a beer from the mini-bar before lowering himself down onto the couch. Steve joined him, sans beer for himself.

After Bucky took a long sip he nodded the glass bottle at Steve. “Any word from Tony on his mystery?”

Steve shook his head. “He hasn't surfaced since I gave him one of those bleeding armors to examine last week.”

Bucky snorted into the neck of the bottle. “Probably been working the whole while, forgot what daylight looks like in the meantime. Another week and you'll have to go in and rescue him.”

Steve didn't reply to that. Instead he leaned back on the couch, drummed his fingers on the leather arm. He probably _did_ need to check up on Tony at this point. Not that it was his job. Or a burden. But someone should always have an eye on Tony, and it looked like that job was falling to Steve more and more often now.

It probably didn't have anything to do with the little game they were playing. Probably. Because it was just a game, and they were friends. Heterosexual friends. Though sometimes, Steve did wonder. About Tony's predilections, that was: not his own. But with Tony, there were always rumors. That Henry man and Tony had always been strangely close, made even more strange by how narcissistic their company tended to be. And Tony and Thor had spent a lot of time in each other's companionship, and Thor tended to be more lax when it came to Migardian conventions like heterosexuality. But Tony... Steve was never sure about Tony. 

If Tony's preferences weren't quite so straight-laced, that could cast this little “game” that they were playing in a whole new light. Steve knew—he didn't like it, but he _knew—_ that Tony placed a high value on Steve's opinions. It was stupid and it wasn't right, and it wasn't even like Tony went along with what Steve thought was the right course of action half the time, or even most the time... but Tony still cared too much about Steve's opinions. Tony was always seeking his approval, even when he didn't show it, even when he didn't _know_ it. It made Steve incredibly uncomfortable, those moments when it was so obvious. But it was true. And since it was true, what if... What if.

“Maybe I should go talk to him,” Steve muttered.

Bucky shrugged, apparently not put-off in the least by Steve's extended silence. The TV was on, some kids were playing basketball. He must have been watching that. 

“He'll either kiss you or punch you, only way to find out is to go try and drag him away from that tinker-toy factory of his.”

“Those my only two options?” Steve mumbled.

Bucky seemed to take notice of Steve's mood, because he sat up in his seat and did more than glance over at Steve. 

“Something up? Thought you said you hadn't spoken to him since the last time I saw you guys?”

“We haven't.”

“You guys fight again? Do I need to prepare for war, because my shoulder-”

Steve grimaced, eyes flinty. “Don't joke about that.”

Bucky shrugged. “Who says I was?”

A long pause. Steve stared down at his clasped hands, fingers twisting against each other. Finally he glanced up at Bucky.

“Why were you so angry about the pictures from Russia?”

Steve didn't have to clarify what pictures. Bucky rolled his eyes and took a long draw off the beer bottle. Finally he swallowed, sighed, and set the bottle down on the coffee table with a sharp thump. He wasn't using a coster.

“Because you two together would end up destroying the world.”

 _We're not that bad_ , Steve wanted to say. But of course, they had been, in the past. And, more importantly: Steve wasn't gay. He wouldn't be with Tony in that way ever. His concern now was more about Tony, and what he might be reading into the situation. What he might be wanting to get from Steve.

“But Tony's not gay.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “And you're not gay, I know. And as for Tony, I'm not a hundred percent on that-” Steve made the mistake of making an agreeing noise in the back of his throat at that. Bucky's sharp eyes snapped to his, narrowed. “You think he is?”

Steve groaned and rubbed at his face. “I don't know,” he mumbled into his hands. “I just...” he glanced up miserably at Bucky. “I don't want to hurt his feelings?”

Bucky grunted and stood up, snatching his beer up with him. 

“And now we're talking about feelings,” he grumbled. “Thanks but no thanks.”

“But-” Steve reached out to Bucky, wanting to get his head sorted out. He didn't want to hurt Tony's feelings. If Tony _did_ have some kind of crush on him, he should end it now, rather than leading him on. But if Tony _didn't_ , then ending it would just result in hurting Tony's feelings. Either way, Steve could hurt Tony. He just... needed to make sure. Figure this out, get all the information he could, and then plan a course of action.

On the other hand, if Tony did have feelings for him, meaningful feelings... was there some way to keep Tony close, keep an eye on him, but not instigate a sexual relationship? Because that could be good. Tony would have Steve keeping an eye on him, making sure he wasn't being reckless or overzealous, and steering him clear of trouble. If he could leverage Tony's feelings to his advantage, for _Tony's own good_... But that was manipulative, and therefore wrong.

Steve's cell phone beeped, interrupting his thoughts. Bucky leaned down over him, glancing at the display as Steve read it.

_Tony_

_Just checked the day. Surprised you haven't broken down my door and carried me away to bed. Sleep now, updates tomorrow._

_xoxox_

Steve wasn't sure if hiding the message from Bucky was more incriminating than the message itself. Before he could come to a decision the point was moot, anyway, since Bucky was already grunting as he read the message, and then stomping away. 

“Figure it out,” Bucky called out over his shoulder. “Before you two end up drawing us all down with you. Again.”

Steve grimaced and stared down at his phone. They weren't that bad. And it wouldn't go that wrong, not again. Not this time.

The phone didn't even dig into Steve's palm as he closed his whole hand over it. He sighed and brought the fist up his forehead. He'd figure this out tomorrow.

* * *

_Roof of your building. Hop to_.

It was nine o'clock the next night. Steve glanced at his watch as he got the text, just to be sure. That probably meant Tony had slept through all of yesterday and most of today. Steve sighed. At least he had gotten some sleep, even if it wasn't under the best of circumstances. 

No reason to keep him waiting. Steve shrugged on his brown leather jacket as he left the apartment, taking only his keys, cell phone, and wallet with him. It was still cool out at night in New York, even more than midway through spring. And who knew where Tony was taking him or how long Steve would be outside. 

When he opened the roof-access door, Steve took a moment to look around before stepping through it. He couldn't see Tony anywhere: not in the suit, or as himself. Figured, Tony would be late even though he had just told Steve to “hop to.” 

Strolling out onto the roof with his hands in his pockets, Steve allowed himself to take in the views of the city. It was beautiful, even after all these years, even after all these changes. That was the thing, growing up in New York: you could always count on it to change with the times, to move forward. It was a constant flux, and conversely enough, one of the very few things that _hadn't_ changed when Steve found himself unfrozen. It was a comfort in its own, strange way. The city that never slept hadn't waited for Steve, and that was the best thing the old girl could have done to make him feel right at home. 

At some point in his musings Steve had approached the edge of the roof without realizing it. He glanced down, scuffing a toe in the gravel on the roof. Not too long a way down. Not the farthest he'd even fallen and lived, for sure.

The roar of repulsor boosters filled his ears, causing Steve to take a smooth step back from the ledge. He leaned back, gaze tracking up until he caught on the old familiar gold-and-red armor. A smile tugged at his lips as Tony flew over in his signature flashy style, coming to a hovering stop a foot or two in front of and above Steve. He had to tilt his head back to meet the metal mask's eyes.

“Tony.”

The faceplate flipped back, revealing a grinning Tony.

“Steve.”

He looked well, from what Steve could see in the glow of the city lights. A day's rest after what was most likely a week of non-stop work, and Tony was right as rain. That RT of his was doing its job, it seemed. It didn't make Steve worry any less.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Tony teased.

Steve stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced around. Tony wasn't landing, which could mean one of two things. He took a shot:

“Got something to show me?”

The faceplate clicked back down and Tony reached one armor-covered hand out to Steve. Steve took a step forward, up onto the safety ledge around the edge of the building. They'd never done this, he was acutely aware. Never done this casually, when there was no danger or imminent threat. 

With impossible strength Tony wrapped his fingers around Steve's forearm, pulling him up and off the roof. There was a moment of vertigo—not panic, because Steve knew that Tony would keep him safe, because Steve _trusted_ Tony—and then Tony was wrapping his other arm around Steve, pulling him up against his chest, wrapping his legs around Steve's, boots tucked securely under the bottom of Steve's shoes. Then they were flying, soaring up above the skyline of Brooklyn with a course set for New Jersey. Steve laughed and pressed up into the armor wrapped against his back, eyes watering as the cool night air whipped by them. His head was tucked just a few inches below Tony's, crown of his skull lining up with the temple of Tony's armor, and it was odd, wasn't it, to feel Tony being so much bigger than him, so much more encompassing. 

“Why have we never done this?” Steve asked. He turned his face into the side of Tony's helmet, even though he was sure Tony would be able to hear him, even with the wind whisking away his words as it was. Tony would have figured out a way to hear him, invented a way.

The mechanically-modulated voice replied to him, bright and clear in the shimmering night: “Never thought of it. You never asked.”

Shifting again up and against Tony, Steve looked out over the city. The lights were shimmering off the river, cars like little red blood cells, pumping pumping pumping through the veins of the city streets. Everything was quiet, this far up: in such a contrast to the constant movement below. Steve leaned against Tony again, speaking against the side of his helmet. “Don't tell anyone, but this beats my bike any day of the week.”

The armor _rippled_ beneath him, like it was moving with Tony's laughter, like it was wriggling with amusement. Steve pushed up into again with what little leverage he had, adjusting himself to feel more secure while at the same time craning his neck to see more, further. Even though Tony had been a futurist before inventing the armor, had been inventing weapons that changed the face of the world, it was easy to see how such an amazing invention like the suit would bias a man's thoughts towards bigger, higher, further. The pulse of humanity could be seen from this height, thrumming and moving and soaring higher every day. It was hard to see how anyone with such a suit could ever want to wreck destruction, could want anything other than to pull humanity up level with him, and then higher and higher, dragging everyone else up with him.

Steve wondered how Tony could ever not feel like a hero, from this point of view. He wondered how the man could ever dip into that pit of self-loathing Steve knew he carried with him everywhere, when he could see so far and do so much good with that vision. Steve wanted to plug Tony into his head, to show him how _he_ saw it, so that whenever Tony was down-and-out, he could remember that. Remember that Steve believed he was a hero, even when— _especially_ when—they disagreed. Even when Steve _told_ Tony wasn't being a hero, Steve wanted Tony to remember that he was. 

They landed on the balcony of Stark Resilient HQ, the make-shift landing pad that led directly to Tony's workshop. Tony let Steve down first, untangling himself from the unarmored man and dangling him by his armpits until Steve's toes grazed the concrete. Tony landed much more heavily next to Steve a second later, armor already sliding into his skin and revealing the man beneath it. Tony flashed Steve a grin and nodded at the glass doors of his workshop. “Come on.”

The inside of the workshop seemed to be in some sort of order, which meant Tony probably had nothing to do with it. Sure enough, Tony immediately started hunting around on one of his many desks, mumbling under his breath about something or other. Steve took the distraction to walk over to the two armor shells on the ground of the workshop, center-stage. The bleeding armor had been cleaned up, but it was still obviously different from the original armor Tony had examined. It was thinner, and somehow more refined looking. More human, almost, or—what was it Tony had called it?—more organic.

The new armor had smooth, curved lines, like pieces of muscle wrapped around themselves, throughout the arms and legs. The repulsors were still there, same as Tony's armors, in the palms, chest, and feet. The stomach and head of the device had been ripped apart, revealing a mess of wires and tubes. The tubes were still stained red. Steve's stomach churned a little to see that. It was definitely mechanical, it was, even he could see that. But it was getting a little close for comfort in that “organic” way it had. Especially since this was just the Mark II of this mysterious supervillain's design, at least as far as they knew so far. The next refinement might be more human, might be a capture-not-kill operation. All Steve could do was wait and hope Tony would figure this thing out and bring an end to this mystery villain's plans before Steve had to make such a call.

The armor twitched and Steve jumped back, reaching for a shield that wasn't there. Damn it. But then Tony was scurrying forward with a grin on his face, fingers lightly twitching at his side. Steve didn't think Tony even realized he did that, move his fingers like he was tapping at an invisible keyboard, when he used Extremis. Steve kind of liked that Tony didn't notice his unconscious tells when he was using Extremis—it meant Steve could keep looking for them and Tony wouldn't try to stop the behavior. 

“Don't worry, I've got it,” Tony explained. His fingers splayed and the armor jerked to sluggish half-life. It moved one arm along with Tony, then the other. When Tony lowered his arms it did as well, retiring back against the epoxy finished floors of Tony's workshop. Cautiously Steve moved forward and looked at the armor again, peering inside. It had tubes coming out of it, he could see now through all the clutter, flowing over to one of Tony's workstation. 

“I thought you said it ran off... blood?”

Tony nodded, flicking a finger absently and cocking his head as the armor on the ground sluggishly copied him. “It does. It did. I modified it so I could play with it without buying out a blood bank and starting rumors of vampirism. I keep odd enough hours as it is.”

Steve snorted. “So what's it running on now?” His feet followed the path of the tubes over to the workstation. He could see it was hooked into capacitors and... maybe something that was an RT?

“Repulsor energy.” Steve didn't jump, but only just. Tony had managed to walk up behind him so quietly he hadn't even noticed until Tony was right there, breath practically ghosting against his ear. Trying to be casual about it, Steve stepped aside, putting space between him and Tony.

Tony continued to explain, too caught up in his tech to notice Steve's movements. “It's definitely the same guy as last time, but he's branching out. It's why I'm still able to hook it up to repulsor energy, because it's still got that base design there. Only he's modified it, now: running it off blood energy. Which, by the way: not as efficient as repulsor tech. Or even the electricity he was running it off last time.”

Steve frowned. “Then why do it?”

Tony's eyes were sparkling with excitement. “Couldn't tell you for sure, but I have a theory.” He paused.

Steve sighed, smiling at Tony's dramatics. “What's the theory?”

“I thought you'd never ask!” With an unnecessarily elaborate gesture, Tony called up a series of holographs around them showing data points and graphs and schematics. Trying to sort through that amount of information made Steve dizzy, so he didn't even bother. Tony would explain it to him.

“This is Mark I. What we saw a month ago, or whenever it was. The first attack.” A schematic that was recognizable as the first armor they went against, the one that seemed like it was built off Tony's designs and designed to be powered by repulsor energy, came up center stage. “Clunky armor, pretty basic, but notable because it _could_ run off repulsor energy. But other than that, unremarkable.”

Tony flicked his fingers like he was brushing away gnats, and the image reduced itself to a thumbnail and shunted off to the side. A schematic of the new armors took its place. 

“Then we get the Mark II. This one still has the capabilities to run off repulsor tech, only it doesn't. It drops its energy efficiency by about two hundred and fifty percent and ups its creep-factor by about a billion by running off organic energy, specifically blood.”

A thought occurred to Steve. “Do we know whose blood it is?” There was a lot of armor, and a lot of blood, that day. If people had _died_...

But Tony was shaking his head and flapping his hands. “No, no, but hang on, I was getting to that!” His fingers flicked and more data come up, only this time it was relatively incomprehensible to Steve. There were little rectangles in rows... DNA readings, maybe. Steve thought it looked familiar from episodes of CSI. 

“The blood is all _synthetic_. It's not actually from someone. And it was designed with the suit in mind! So: I've got a theory. A theory for why the maker of these bad boys dropped the efficiency levels in exchange for the yuck factor: he's not done yet.”

Steve frowned. “Do you have any way to predict what he'll do next?”

At this Tony beamed, all toothy happiness and crinkled eyes. “Steve, I've got two data points. I've got a line. I've got a fucking _slope_ , I've got a trajectory, I've got all the predictions you could ever want!” Another flick of the fingers, this one barely noticeable amidst all the rest of Tony's excited energy. A series of new schematics came on screen, each with subtle differences Steve couldn't pretend to understand.

“Organic tech. This guy's building organic bots, for some stupid reason. Which means they're going to get bloodier. Lots bloodier. And squishier. But they're not alive. None of them will be, in case you're worried. Not for... another seventeen iterations, at least, would we have to worry about anything like that. And probably not even then: this guy doesn't want free will, consciousness. He's not trying to make a squishy Vision. He's trying to make organic armors. Almost-fully organic. Not sure exactly _why_ , but hey, mad scientists tend not to need great reasons for doing things, I guess. Pretty stupid project if you ask me, but the good news is that I've got him figured out.”

Steve smiled at Tony, so excited over his discovery. “Any idea when or where he'll strike next? Or who it is?”

Tony shook his head, expression muting somewhat. “ _That_ I need more data for. We can figure New York, since that's where the last attacks have been. Probably within a month or two, with the rate he's developing the prototypes. As for who he was...” Tony splayed all his fingers at once, and the holographs flicked off. Tony blinked like he hadn't meant to do that, but kept them off. “I've got feelers out, got palms greased as well as I can afford to, but no one's heard anything.”

“This is good work,” Steve said sincerely. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Tony's shoulder, meeting his eyes to make sure he conveyed the honesty of his approval. “It is. You've discovered an incredible amount of information with so little to go off.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but there was a pause of a half second before he shrugged Steve's hand off. “Yeah, yeah. I'm a genius, I know. How're things going with your mystery?”

That was exactly the wrong question Tony could have asked. On a dime Steve's mood soured, thinking about Bucky's not-yet healed shoulder and Natasha's almost-faded bruises and lacerations. 

“Bucky and Natasha got into some trouble,” he replied. “Trying to look into it for me.”

Tony's mouth twisted into a grimace. “They at least get anything?”

“A little,” Steve admitted. “I'll send you the files later, if you want to look over the information they gathered. But only if-”

Tony waved off Steve's preemptive apologies and caveats. “Please. I'd love to. Give me something different to stare at from these schematics, and then you'll owe me one.”

Steve winced and tried not to think about all those times in the past that Tony had purposefully indebted Steve to him, because he had plans in the works that he needed Steve to be complacent in. Tony seemed like he was regretting phrasing that as he had, eyes downcast as his fingers twitched at his sides. He was probably running through a thesaurus, Steve thought with a sad grin.

“We should celebrate,” Steve suggested. Tony's eyes shot up to meet Steve's, eyebrows raising to his hairline. Resolutely Steve stamped down the instinct to rub the back of his neck. Just because he wasn't normally the celebratory type didn't mean he _couldn't_ be. It shouldn't be _that_ strange.

“Your success?” Steve tried again. “And I've made progress, too, thanks to Bucky and Natasha. So. We should celebrate.”

Tony glanced around his workshop. 

“With what?” he asked. He turned back to Steve with an abashed grin. “This place is a little dry, you know.”

Steve rolled his eyes. Like he was going to ask Tony to crack open champagne or even drink it in front of him. 

“I was thinking more pizza and soda,” Steve said dryly. “Or Chinese, if you're in more of a mood for that.”

Tony grinned. “Pizza and soda it is.”

Steve waited a moment for Tony to pick up a phone, then realized maybe Tony was waiting for him to call himself. A second after _that_ , he realized Tony was smirking at him because he had already put in the order himself, mentally. Steve grumbled and tried not to seem too flustered by Tony's outrageous display of technological control, but he knew Tony could tell he had him duped, if only for a moment. 

A short time later the two men were seated comfortably on the floor of Tony's workshop, poking at the downed armor bits as Tony chatted rapidly about all the interesting bits and pieces he had discovered when he took it apart.

“I've got twenty bucks against Pepper that the next part we see organic is a nervous system,” he explained. 

“Does Pepper know about this bet?”

Tony scoffed. “No. Not like it's the first bet she didn't know about, though.”

That off-handed comment prompted something within Steve. He leaned back, hands bracing himself from behind, as he considered Tony. “What was the craziest bet you ever made?”

Tony considered this as he chewed another slice of pizza. “With her or anyone?”

“Anyone.”

Tony hummed as he thought before finally swallowing the wad of dough and cheese in his mouth.

“Probably back in MIT. Undergrad. Some jackass upperclassman bet me I couldn't beat him at the physics final project.”

“I assume you did.”

A slightly manic gleam came to Tony's eyes as he remembered. “Almost died getting the equipment on top of the dome, but yeah, destroyed him. Was able to detect a blackhole using a technique no one else had used before. More accurate, less correcting algorithms needed to make the data useable, that sort of thing.” Tony grinned at Steve. “And I might have been running on about three days without sleep when I decided to haul all the equipment up there. Should have paid someone from the spelunking club to do it for me.”

“Wouldn't someone from a rock-climbing club have been better?”

Tony shrugged and wiped his hands on a paper towel. “I don't think we had one of those. Maybe. Definitely had a spelunking club, though.” He paused, a wicked grin on his lips. Steve sighed. He knew that expression.

“Who'd you sleep with in the club?”

But Tony waggled one finger. “Nope! You already got a question. My turn, now.”

Steve frowned. “We're taking turns, now?”

“Oh! Game! Never Have I Ever!”

Steve blinked and leaned back slightly in the face of Tony's sudden burst of enthusiasm. “What?”

“Never have I ever,” Tony repeated patiently. “It's a drinking game. Well. So, not that part. Just drink the soda. Rules: I say something I've never done, and you have to take a drink if you've done it.”

Steve frowned. “The topics of this game tend to be sexual, don't they?”

Tony snorted. “Only if you're uncreative. I'll start: Never have I ever... had sex in uniform.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “That's sexual. And that's cheating. You know I-” Steve stopped, cut himself off. Tony was grinning much too broadly. A flush started to travel up Steve's cheeks. Oh, darn it. This game wasn't going to end well for him.

Without saying another word Steve took a pointed drink of his soda. It didn't seem possible, but Tony's grin grew even wider.

“My turn.” 

Tony's grin was much too relaxed and cock-sure for Steve's tastes. Time to try and beat him at his own game.

Steve thought for a moment, rolling the question over in his mind. “The goal is to try and get you to drink, right?” he asked.

Tony nodded. “Normally it's more obvious, since the more the other person drinks, the more they 'lose', since the goal is to get them sloshed first. But yes,” he clarified, “try to think of something you haven't done, but you're certain I have.”

Steve nodded. Okay. Shouldn't be hard, with Tony Stark. Just think of something outlandish.

“Never have I ever tried...” Steve paused, trying to remember the name. “Autoerotic asphyxiation. That's it, right?”

Tony's eyes widened but he nodded. “Yeah. Choking, what you're thinking of?” Steve nodded. “Yeah, that's the term.”

Tony didn't drink.

Steve frowned. Opened his mouth to ask, but Tony beat him to it, waving a hand incredulously. “Right now I'll tell you: nothing dangerous. At least, not _that_ dangerous. So don't even try asking. Pick something more normal! There's plenty of normal things I've done that you haven't.”

Then Tony paused and cocked his head. “Though, while we're on the subject of danger: ever pop a chub fighting the bad guys?”

Steve flushed. Resolutely didn't take a drink, because: “It doesn't count if it happened to you.”

Tony waved Steve's staunch insistence to hide behind the rules aside. “Not my question. Or, count it as mine if you want an extra go at me. Just wondering.” Steve kept his mouth shut, not sure how to respond. Sighing, Tony spoke again: “Okay, so, I'll show you mine if you show me yours. In the early days it used to happen a lot. Younger, new at the whole heroing thing, all that adrenaline pumping through you, sure to pop one, right? Only I kind of conditioned myself out of it. Care to guess why?”

Steve frowned. “Because it's inappropriate? Because you saw too many people get injured or die in the heat of battle-”

Tony snorted. “Okay, apparently your dick is a hell of a lot more rational than mine, because lecturing mine on appropriate moral compunctions never seems to work for me.”

Steve grunted, glancing away. Tony might be right about that, exactly right, but it didn't mean Steve had to _admit_ it. Not just yet, anyway.

Tony continued. “Anyway, what trained me out of it—most days, at least—was the armor.”

“The armor?”

Tony pressed his lips together, obviously trying to stifle a laugh. He gestured down to his groin, then held one hand up palm flat and facing himself, then tucked the other behind it. Slowly he raised his index finger until it bumped into the palm of his hand held flat. 

“The most I can sport is a half-chub,” he explained. “Groin of the armor? _Way_ too close to get a full hard-on. And do you have _any_ idea how uncomfortable it is to have your erection fighting against a gold-titanium alloy?”

Steve snorted, ducking his head as laughs shook his chest. He had never thought of that. Now it would probably occur to him every time they were in the field. Except....

“But it's not metal anymore,” he pointed out. Then he frowned, reconsidered. “Or, it is, but...”

Tony smirked. “Yeah, I could adjust it, if I wanted. But like I said: conditioned out of me after all those years with the metal suits. And since _my_ penis, at least, responds better to behavioral conditioning than stern lectures about appropriate reactions and moral fortitude, I don't really have that problem anymore.” Tony took a sip of his soda, then gestured it at Steve. “Okay, come on. I showed you mine.”

Steve sighed, but already knew he was going to agree. Tony _had_ gone into more detail than he needed to, and admitted plenty embarrassing details to Steve. The least he could do was respond in return in the affirmative or negative.

“Yes. But not much. And more beforehand than once the actual fighting starts.” He paused, trying to think of any juicy details that would satiate the curiosity he could see gleaming in Tony's eyes. “And maybe once when Madam Hydra had her thighs wrapped around my neck.”

Tony burst out laughing, whole body rolling to the side with the force of his good humor. Steve chuckled along with him, more tickled by the way Tony seemed to be getting so much amusement out of this than his own mirth. After all, it was an embarrassing thought, that he had been fighting a villain and gotten an erection, even if the villain _was_ as beautiful as Madam Hydra, and Steve had his nose close enough to her groin to smell... well. Apparently men weren't the only one who had the problem he and Tony were currently discussing.

Not that he would tell Tony that. He'd already given Tony too much ammunition that night, and Steve didn't want to deal with Tony sexually harassing the female Avengers through the next several calls to assemble. Best that information stay with Steve, and the women who fought alongside of him. If it wasn't just a villain _thing_ , that was.

“Is it my turn?” Steve asked.

Tony nodded, slowly straightening himself back up. “Sure, sure. Remember: more tame. I'm sure there's plenty I've done that you haven't.”

Steve considered for a moment. Tame, but not something he himself had experienced. He could do that. “Never have I ever had a threesome.”

Tony sighed and took a drink. 

Steve couldn't help a follow-up question, even though he was sure it was against the “rules”. “Two women or two men?”

Tony snorted. “The _right_ kind. Two women. Not gay, in case you forgot because the last month got you confused.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “I was led to believe it wasn't 'gay if it's a three-way'.”

Tony snorted into his soda, droplets of his drink spilling out of his mouth and nose and getting trapped in his goatee. He gasped for a moment, wiping at his goatee and slapping at his chest before he managed to recover. Steve watched the proceedings with gentle amusement. He couldn't feel a small surge of pride that he had managed to do that to Tony: make him laugh that hard, that is, not almost choke him to death.

“Okay, okay,” Tony spluttered. “Mr. Modern, Twenty-First Century Man. Cosmopolitan views and all that. Never have I ever had sex with a man.”

Steve stayed still. But his lips tightened and eyes flickered. He wasn't... He wasn't sure...

Tony's eyebrows shut up. He had read the uncertainty in Steve's expression. Of course he had: Tony knew all of Steve's tells. Before Tony could start, Steve asked: “What counts?”

Tony shook his finger. “If you have to ask, you have to drink. But I want _clarification_ here, because...” Tony's eyes were wide as Steve took a drink. “ _Really_?!”

Steve did his best to fight down a flush and remain the stolid, sure form of Captain America. Only, he was sitting on Tony's workshop floor, belly full of pizza and sipping soda with his friend. It was hard to be Captain America when he was so fully into being Steve Rogers, at the moment. Especially since Tony questioning his sexuality wasn't exactly an emergency.

“It was the war,” Steve explained. He did his best to keep the timbre of his voice deep, the tone steady. And he met Tony's eyes, which was hardest of all. Those wide, blue eyes that were staring at him with shock and... Something else. Confusion? Nervousness? _Hope_? Steve thought back to Bucky's words, his warnings. Admitting this wouldn't change anything between them. It couldn't. Not even if Tony was... Was.

Though he hadn't, a voice pointed out in the back of Steve's mind. That's right. Tony had never had a homosexual experience, if he had been able to say “Never have I ever”. Which meant... what, exactly?

“It was just a handjob,” Steve clarified. Maybe if he kept clarifying they'd be able to put this whole thing behind them. Maybe Tony would stop looking at him like... Like. Steve wasn't able to put a name to the expression on Tony's face now. 

“Trenches,” he continued. “Just one soldier helping out another. We'd been on the lines for months. Overseas even longer. Woke up hard, guy next to me, too. Quick hand before we got up, that's all.” Steve frowned, mind going back to those muddy trenches, which he never even spent that much time in. God bless those soldiers who had, those soldiers who died in those trenches. 

“Was it Bucky?”

The bitter twist of Tony's mouth made a flash of anger flare up in Steve's chest. But Steve reminded himself that maybe Tony was jealous, that this whole stupid game he had agreed to might be hurting Tony's feelings. And he didn't just mean this “Never Have I Ever” game: the whole folly of “gay chicken,” as Tony was fond of calling it. Tony's jealousy over Bucky could come from a legitimate place, emotionally. Steve needed to do his best not to be upset about that.

“Bucky was underage,” Steve pointed out as calmly as he could. “I don't know who it was. We moved on soon after.”

Tony was still silent, which Steve took as a bad sign. Tony was never silent. So Steve shrugged as casually he could and leaned back again. “No one talked about it, but plenty did it.”

Tony shrugged, seemed to find his voice. “Right. Well. Prison rules, right? Heh.”

He was still struggling, that much was obvious. Steve frowned. It was odd for Tony to have such sexual compunctions, wasn't it? Then again, the things that Tony did, the things that Tony bragged about, were all hyper-masculine, weren't they? Threesomes with two women, different female conquests, sex with women in all sorts of exotic locations and impossible places. Powerful women that Tony managed to lure into his bed, strip of their masculine trappings and reduce back to the feminine.

It probably had something to do with Howard. Going all the way back to a young, teenaged Tony, trying to impress his father so much. Trying to prove he was every inch the man Howard pretend to be.

Which... Huh. Steve suddenly realized there was probably a whole list of things he'd done, in that case, that Tony hadn't. Not even with men—no, the only homosexual experience had had was in the war, and the most of it was the handjob he just described. But there were things he'd done with women, things he'd figured most guys did, just didn't talk about: Tony probably hadn't done those things. Hopefully Tony hadn't caught on, yet, because Steve would end up losing the game fairly roundly if Tony did.

“Never have-” Steve started.

“Wait!” Tony's tone was too sharp, his voice too loud. Tony himself seemed to realize this, because he stopped, drew back into himself, as Steve obligingly waited for whatever it was Tony had to say.

“Was...” Tony stopped. Clenched one fist, stared down into his lap.

Feelings were getting hurt. Sickness churned at Steve's stomach. He needed to put a stop to this, to end all this before it truly damaged his and Tony's friendship. He couldn't have Tony drawing away from him. It would hurt the team, and more importantly, it would hurt Tony. Steve needed to be the bigger man and end this.

“Was he a good kisser?”

Or maybe being the bigger man meant continuing this game of gay chicken. And escalating it.

Steve licked his lips. “We didn't kiss,” he replied. “It wasn't... It's not like we went dancing. There was no romance or tenderness. Just a hand besides your own jerking you off. Could have belonged to anyone. Could have belonged to a woman.”

“Never have I ever,” Steve started again, tone insistent. Tony seemed to take the hint because he didn't interrupt, just... curled in on himself. Like he was pouting. Steve sighed.

“Look, listen,” he said. “Never have... Well, okay. Let's drop the pretense. I've done anal with a woman. That doesn't make me gay.”

“What... You let a woman _peg_ you?!”

Steve groaned and dropped his head in his hands. “I meant I... Into her. Point is, one man's hand could be a woman's, a woman's buttocks could be a man's, neither of them is particularly homosexual.”

“Letting a guy jerk you off is pretty gay,” Tony pointed out.

Steve took a breath. He needed to placate whatever sore feelings Tony was having, even if he didn't know what they were.

“Who would have thought.” Steve forced a cocky grin, lopsidedly tugging up his lips. “White-bread Captain America has more variation in the sack than international playboy Tony Stark.”

 _That_ seemed to be the right thing to say, because Tony grinned, then laughed.

Tony held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Gayest thing I've ever done, just to _prove_ to you that I'm not so straight-laced, fucking hell, ruining my reputation, here: Finger up the ass. During a blowjob.” He beamed and leaned back, obviously very proud of himself.

Steve pretended to consider this very, very seriously. He leaned forward, hands clasped loosely together in his lap. “Wow. Yeah. A woman touching your buttocks. Pretty daring. Might have turned you gay. You're very brave, letting a woman's fingers anywhere near that.”

Lazily Tony threw a wadded-up napkin at Steve. It didn't even clear the pizza box set between them. “Oh, come on. Like you've done more? With a woman, you know.”

Steve pretended to consider this, though he could already feel the flush starting on his neck as his thoughts immediately strayed back to one experience in particular. “I might have... experienced extensive prostate stimulation. From a woman.” He leveled a firm _look_ at Tony, their eyes meeting and holding. “She had a toy she wanted to try out on me, and I didn't say no.”

“Captain America,” Tony replied flatly. “ _Captain America_ had a _dildo_ up his _ass_?!”

“Vibrator,” Steve corrected.

Dramatically Tony flopped backwards onto the floor of his workshop. Steve winced, almost starting forward to stop him, but managed to bring himself under control just in time. From his position on the floor Tony held up his hands in defeat. “You win!” he announced. “You win, I can't believe this, I was beat by Captain America in sexual adventurousness.”

Abashedly Steve gave into his instincts and rubbed the back of his neck. “It's not much,” he protested. “And I haven't had nearly as many partners as you. And I'm sure I haven't done as many-”

Ton's head popped up from its prone position on the floor, peering over at Steve. “Take the victory,” he commanded. He stuck a finger out at Steve for good measure, still mostly lying down. 

Steve sighed. As dryly as he could manage, he replied “It is with a heavy heart and virile libido that I accept this victory of sexual experience over the previous world champion, Tony Stark.”

Grunting, Tony rolled himself upright, back into his position sitting cross-legged across from Steve. He stuck his tongue out at him for good measure, once he was settled. 

“Was it good? The gays seem to be pretty big fans, but...”

Steve let his gaze roll up to the ceiling. What had he gotten himself into? How exactly was he supposed to keep a straight face—and limp dick—while describing Rachel fucking his ass with a vibrator? Steve breathed in and out. He could always try and recount the events without actually remembering them. Somehow. Or at least, while doing his best not to remember the sensations of them, which of course was exactly what Tony wanted to hear. 

“Very good,” Steve tried, still staring at the ceiling. Tony snorted and Steve's eyes flickered down. Tony was staring at him, decidedly unimpressed by his under-zealous account of said prostate stimulation. 

Steve scrubbed at his face and tried again. “Felt good. Took a lot of prep, but my lady friend—who no, I'm not telling you who it was, but it wasn't Sharon, before you even ask.” Tony pouted. “My lady friend knew what she was doing and. It was very arousing.”

“Did you...” Steve peaked over at Tony. The other man's eyes were wide, and he was leaning forward slightly. Steve could even pick up the quickened state of his breathing, and he wished he didn't know that. He didn't know what it meant, exactly—was Tony aroused? By Steve? By the thought of it? _Because_ it was Steve or just because of the act?—and he didn't want to know. 

Tony licked his lips. “Did you come?”

Steve's cock twitched in his pants and he stifled a groan. He was _not_ having this conversation with Tony, he really wasn't. But now he was thinking about it, thinking about Rachel's wrist flicking back and forth, the way her breathing labored, her breasts beautiful and moving above him, in time with the movement of her hands. How wet she had gotten, the smell of it filling his small bedroom.

Steve coughed and shifted, trying to adjust himself before realizing it was going to be impossible with Tony watching him like that.

“She...” Steve coughed again, ducked his eyes. Took in a breath then let it out. “She stopped. Before that. Because she wanted... We had intercourse. So.”

“Didn't want you to finish early,” Tony breathed. And wow, the way he said it. The way he pushed out the words, almost groaned them, like... Steve shook his head to clear it.

“But it felt good? Would it have been good enough-”

“You know, I'm pretty sure there's instructional videos on the Internet if you feel so inclined to pursue this curiosity further,” Steve pointed out. He might have been a little sharp, but he was getting uncomfortable. He wasn't sure if his discomfort was because of Tony's interest, arousal, his own arousal, or some confusing combination of the three, but he didn't want to talk about it anymore. Not with Tony. It felt too much like leading Tony on, telling him about the experience. And he didn't want Tony to get the wrong idea about anything. About them.

“Hey, I had something to ask you, about Zola.”

Tony's entire demeanor changed at Steve's attempt to change the topic. His face closed down, his body tilted back, away from Steve in a forced display of casualness. Steve winced but didn't comment on it. Tony was just being Tony, and until Steve figured out if he was hurting him, he couldn't figure out how to fix it.

“What's up? About that information Buck-a-roonie and Natasha dug up?”

Steve nodded. “It's patents that Zola is making money off of. Natasha and Bucky were thinking maybe I could get McCoy to look at it, figure out what he's up to, maybe.”

Tony scratched at his chin, considering. “Yeah, McCoy's probably your best bet for something like this. I could look at the money trail, though. If you wanted. See if I can't pin him down to a specific location.”

Steve smiled. “Thanks, Tony. That'd be great.”

Making great show of looking at his watch—even though he had a clock in his head, Steve knew that—Tony yawned loudly and stretched. “Well. Time to get you back home. Want a lift?”

Something about being so close to Tony now, the armor curled up all around him, made Steve nervous. Uncomfortable. It wasn't that he didn't _trust_ Tony: it was never that. It was something... else. Something he needed to work out, reassess, and then come at this whole thing with a new plan of attack. But that would require reflection, and analysis, neither of which he exactly had time for just this second.

Still, he couldn't exactly tell Tony he'd rather take a cab back. If Tony was harboring a crush, or even if he wasn't, it'd be insulting. So Steve just smiled as naturally as he could and nodded. “Sure. Can't turn down seeing the sights like that again.”

And if the way Tony smiled back was a little too happy, and confused, and... and that indescribable emotion Steve had seen playing below the surface of Tony's expression all evening, well, Steve did his best not to look too hard into it. There'd be time for that later, as he reassessed exactly what game he and Tony were playing. Or if it wasn't a game to one of them, and how Steve needed to change, or not, his behavior to accommodate that fact.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the part where Tony meets Steve on the roof of his building has [this piece of art](http://drzwi-do-szafy.tumblr.com/post/47220345847) to thank for inspiration.
> 
> For the "Never Have I Ever" scene, I'd like to thank [thealienonbroadway](http://thealienonbroadway.tumblr.com), [scratch-the-maven](http://scratch-the-maven.tumblr.com/), [partytimexelent](http://partytimexelent.tumblr.com/), and an anon for their help brainstorming various things Steve and Tony have never-have-they-ever done.


	7. Chapter 6

 

The music in Tony's lab was blaring when Rhodey showed up. He keyed it lower and Tony pouted, but kept working. “What brings you here Rare-Bear?” Sparks flew as Tony tore off another piece of the organic armor off—the arm, this time. He had a theory about regeneration that had jogged loose after dropping Steve off at his apartment last night. Now he just needed to hook some of the organic bits of the armor up to a vat of nutrients—and do about a thousand other more technical things, but whatever—and see what happened. It might give him some more insight into why exact this particular villain was going the organic-armor route, and make his predictions of future behavior even more accurate. Steve would appreciate that.

“That's gotta be the worst pet name yet.”

Tony finished cutting through the metal and let the arm drop the floor before turning around and grinning at Rhodey. He turned the hacksaw off for good measure. “Shut up, you love it. Anyway, what's up?”

Rhodey rolled his eyes and nodded at the armor lying on the floor behind Tony. “I don't know, you tell me. You're the one that called.”

Right, he had. “Right, I did.”

Tony turned around to the armor, then back to Rhodey. He grinned and clapped his hands together. “Figured some stuff out. Made some predictions.”

Rhodey grinned and nodded. “Show me what you got.”

By the time Tony was done explaining all the same things—in slightly more mechanical detail—to Rhodey he had to Steve the night before, Rhodey's hands were covered to the wrist in synthetic blood and he was poking at the ripped-open stomach of the armor with a spanner.

“You tried going to Boris with this new information? See if it jogs anything loose?”

Tony shrugged. He was seated on the floor across from Rhodey, the armor in between them. He had one leg curled up against his chest, arm draped lazily over the raised knee. His hand flopped back and forth in a negative gesture.

“Only other person who knows what you now know besides me is Steve.”

“Steve?”

Rhodey's entire body went still, abruptly enough that it made Tony go still in response. He blinked, frowned when Rhodey just stared blankly at him.

“Yeah. Steve.” Tony's brows drew together low over his eyes. “What's wrong with that? He's not going to tell anyone.”

Rhodey rolled his eyes. “I know that. Just. Kinda weird.”

“What?”

Rhodey wouldn't meet his eyes. “You told him before you told me?” Rhodey let out a little huff at the end of his words, like he was writing it off as stupid, as sarcastic. But Tony could tell that he meant it. Tony might be complete crap at understanding people ninety-nine percent of the time, but that was mostly because he didn't care. He cared about Rhodey, and he cared if Rhodey felt... threatened?

This called for tact. And “tact” for Tony meant relentless teasing, sarcasm, and levity, with an underscore of seriousness.

“Aw Rhode-ster.” Tony paused. Thought about that one for a second. His eyes flicked over to Rhodey for a second, who was glaring at him, waiting for realization to kick in. “Right, not a great one, scratch that,” he amended. “Anyway, Rhodey: don't be _jealous_. You'll always be my number one work wife, you know that.”

Rhodey rolled his eyes and smirked. “Yeah. Well. What's with this gay chicken thing with Steve anyway?”

“Have you been talking to Carol? Why were you talking to Carol? You and Carol are not allowed to talk anymore.”

Rhodey smirked. “Army Air Force football game. She still wants a powered version.”

Tony raised his eyebrows in affirmation of that. Probably would be fun to watch. If only to see Steve and Carol go at it. Probably end up leveling the field.

“Anyway, it's nothing,” Tony said. “Gay chicken, not a big deal. Play it all the time.”

“You've never played gay chicken with me.”

Tony blinked. Thought, for all of half a second. No specific instances were coming to mind immediately, but... “I'm sure I did. College, or something. Do you want to go back to-” he made the arm of the armor between them twitch. Rhodey ignored it.

Instead he sighed and leaned forward, hands clasped lightly between his knees. “We didn't know each other in college. And for what you've told, in college you were terrified of being small or of your dad thinking you weren't man enough. You never pulled any of this back then. And since then, it's always been women. You know...” Rhodey paused, looked down. Tony braced himself when he met the carefully-controlled expression that Rhodey turned on him once he had a moment to collect himself. Oh boy.

“You know,” Rhodey continued, “If this is... something. We can talk about it. Not the details, but-”

“Not you, too,” Tony groaned.

“Too?”

Tony ignored the question. Rhodey would probably just go gossip with his close personal friend Carol Danvers and they'd eat ice cream and be big fat girls about the whole thing behind Tony's back.

“Rhodey, how long have you known me?” He cut Rhodey off before the other man even began to open his mouth. “Don't answer that, I don't want you to remember how old I am. Point is: Have I ever been with a man? Even through all that Henry shit, you know the right of it.”

Rhodey shrugged, expressions still carefully neutral. Fuck, did Tony hate that.

“Just because it's never happened in the past,” Rhodey said slowly. “I mean: it's Steve. You've always kinda hero-worshipped the guy. And as far as guys go, he's pretty much perfect. You couldn't do any better.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Except for that fact that he has a _dick_ , Rhodey. Fuck. _I am straight. Steve is straight_. We're just fucking each other around, you know. It's _normal_.”

Rhodey shrugged. “Okay, just.” He hesitated. When he looked back up that neutral expression was gone, _finally_ , but now it was replaced with naked concern, and a dash of caution. “You know you're straight. But are you sure Steve is? What if... this whole thing...”

Tony shook his head. “No. No, definitely not. As hard as it is to believe, Steve and I actually _talked_ about this. Neither of us are gay, neither of us secretly wants to fuck the other guy's ass, okay?”

Rhodey's entire face contorted in disgust at that. Tony smirked. Least he deserved, trying to get Tony to talk about this: _that_ visual image.

“Okay, fine.” Rhodey held his hands up as he admitted defeat. “Just wanted to make sure things with you and Steve didn't escalate to the point that someone's feelings got hurt and you two found a new and exciting way to blow up the world with your maritals.”

“You know, that hurts,” Tony pouted. “None of you guys have any faith in me. Or us. You guys keep warning us off each other and it's just going to drive us closer together. We might fuck just to prove you wrong.”

“That sounds more like something you would do than something Cap would do,” Rhodey pointed out.

Tony considered this for a moment. “I might be able to talk him into it.” Tony's mind flickered back to the last conversation he and Steve had. Little did Rhodey know how open to the idea Steve might be. “Hey, off-topic question: you ever fuck yourself with a vibrator?”

Rhodey's expression was something Tony would have to get off the security feeds later, because it was the most inspired combination of disgust and what-the- _fuck_ he'd ever witnessed.

“If this is about Steve I don't even _want_ to know,” Rhodey said. “Just... Make sure he's cool, okay? Don't hurt his feelings. Just because _you're_ fine doesn't mean _he_ is. You forget that, you know.”

Tony pointedly ignored the latter half of what Rhodey said. “You need to stop talking to Carol,” Tony pointed out. “She was worried about Steve's 'feelings' too. You guys know that he's a grown man, right? Fully capable of making his own decisions. More so than me, even! Hey, that's a thought.” Tony shifted forward, moving so he had his knees under him. “Everyone keeps trying to protect Steve's feelings: what about mine?”

“Gotta have a heart to have feelings, Stark,” Rhodey quipped.

“Heart's fixed, it's the brain that needs help, keep up,” Tony snarked right back.

Rhodey rolled his eyes. “Like _you_ even know the whole story behind Extremis and the RT and what theydo for you.”

“Don't-” Tony stopped, whatever surely brilliant rebuke he had on the tip of his tongue lost in a flurry of thought. _What_ _the RT and_ _Extremis did for him_. Extremis and the RT did so much: regulated his heart, his lungs, his brain activity, and his armor. Tony sometimes forgot how they took over mechanical _and_ organic systems. The RT was more of a pacemaker for his brain: something he needed to help him survive his particular condition. But Extremis...

“Is that it?!”

When Tony refocused and stared at Rhodey, grinning brilliantly, all he was met with was a very confused look from his friend.

Right. Hadn't explained it. Back up, reverse that.

Tony gestured at the armor, letting it move slightly with him to underscore his point. “This. They didn't steal my _tech_ , and they're not reverse-engineering it from some old busted armor of mine. They're trying to reverse-engineer something that would integrate with Extremis!”

Stumbling forward, Tony ran his hands over the armor, then plunged them inside to the innards of the machine. “They don't have the virus, though.”

Rhodey moved forward with Tony, poking at the machine with him. “How do you know?”

“Their armor isn't my armor,” he said. “Or, rather: It doesn't work like my armor. Doesn't work with Extremis.”

Rhodey frowned. “But you're moving it with Extremis, aren't you?” His eyes widened before he scooted himself backwards across the floor, away from the armor. “That was _you_ controlling it, right?”

Tony waved his concerns away. “Yeah, yeah. But it doesn't work like my armor works. I'm controlling it the same way I control all other near-field electronics. Not-”

Tony paused. Thought for a minute. How was he supposed to explain this? It was an entire other set of senses, what Extremis gave him. Trying to explain how he interacted with his armor or other technology would be like trying to explain what sight was like to a blind man. Then again, in the blind the visual cortex is overwritten by things that create a visual picture, like touch when reading braille or examining the shape of something, or sound when it's used to echolocate position. All he had to do was explain it using the senses that Rhodey knew.

So how was his technological sense analogous to his other senses?

Almost subconsciously Tony reached out, feeling the armor in his bones, and the armor lying on the ground before them.

“First of all,” he started slowly. “I need a medium to connect to the bad guy's armor. Right now I'm working through the wifi in my lab and a couple other things. If it was further away, if we were in the middle of the desert, if it was in a lead box, I wouldn't be able to touch it.”

Rhodey frowned. “Is that why you keep your armor,” he gestured vaguely at his gut, “inside you?”

Tony shook his head. “I could control my armor no matter what. Anywhere. It's a second limb, not a...” he grinned “Not a screwdriver or welding torch. Those things, you can control them, right? So long as you're close enough to touch. Same with me and this armor.” Mentally he reached out to the defunct armor, having it lift one lazy arm before dropping it back to the ground. “But my armor, it's like an arm or a leg. Of course I can use it, and move: it's me. It's just an extension of me. Because it was designed using Extremis, as a... a symbiotic part of Extremis. This villain's armor, on the other hand: it's just a welding torch. I can touch it, I can use it, but it's not my arm.”

“But...”

“ _Buuuut_.” Tony grinned. “ _But_. This armor, here: it's got organic systems. It's rigged for repulsor energy. They're trying to get close to what I have, trying to get close to the Extremis tech. It's gotta be, because why else make the armor organic?”

“Unless, you wanted to inject it with the virus,” Rhodey said, comprehension dawning.

“ _Exactly_.”

Triumphant, Tony twirled a screwdriver over his fingers, beaming at Rhodey. But Rhodey, that sourpuss, was just frowning.

“Can they do it?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “They can't. I...” he paused. Shit. He couldn't explain to Rhodey _why_ whoever was trying to build Extremis-compatible armor wouldn't succeed. It was all wrapped up in his genetic secret, in why Extremis didn't kill him from the start, in why Extremis wasn't a viable super-serum alternative. Shit.

“They can't,” Tony finally settled on. He waved a hand vaguely and hoped his expression was suitably apologetic. “Extremis stuff.”

“Right,” Rhodey replied. Science love him, Rhodey didn't press the issue, even if he still looked vaguely worried.

“I'll keep an eye on it,” Tony promised. “Keep an ear to the ground, double-check all the patents and engineering journals, make sure nothing's in development. But right now, with what I know? They can't do it. Trust me.”

“Okay, okay.” Rhodey sighed, but dropped it.

Tony stared down at the armor, brushing mental fingertips over it, probing, prodding, feeling for the systems he now recognized for what they were. This was definitely trying to be an Extremis armor. But it could never be. Not without his genetic sequence spliced into the organic tissue.

“I gotta tell Steve,” Tony mumbled, mostly to himself. Steve would be so pleased to have progress, _real_ progress, on the problem. And even more pleased to know that whoever was making these armors would reach a dead end relatively soon. He might press the issue more than Rhodey, but-

Rhodey was staring oddly at Tony.

“What?”

Much to Tony's annoyance, Rhodey just sighed and shook his head. “I'll trust you when you say you're not gay, but maybe check with Steve?”

Tony blinked. “Why would Steve know if I was gay better than me?”

Rhodey huffed. “I mean check and see if _Steve's_ not gay.”

Tony rolled his eyes. Before he even had his mouth halfway open with some surely witty retort, Rhodey cut him off with a waggling finger and matronly sternness.

“Listen, the last time you guys didn't talk something out, the Avengers went to war with each other. Save us all the headache?”

Tony wanted to protest that this wasn't like that at _all,_ that Civil War was about so much more than some hurt feelings and lack of communication. They _had_ talked it out, and they'd come to realize neither man was going to back down from his ideologies, and neither man was able to be swayed the sense of the other side. It wasn't nearly as... as _petty_ as Rhodey was making it seem.

But instead of explaining all that—and really probably just digging himself further into the hole with Rhodey when it came to claiming he wasn't gay, since any conversation about Steve would inevitably lead to Tony defending him, Tony could at least be honest with himself about that—he snapped his mouth shut and nodded. And maybe pouted a little.

Besides, it'd probably be for the best if Tony double-checked. Just in case. Not Steve was gay. And even if he was gay, he definitely wouldn't go for Tony. He'd go for someone good, like Sam. Or maybe someone brooding, like Bucky. But not Tony. Not flash and snark and mean-spirited heroism. Steve could do better than that.

Petulantly Tony reached out to the broken armor on the ground and made it jerk forward, grabbing at Rhodey's leg. Rhodey yelped and scooted backwards several feet, before leveling a glare across the armor. Tony laughed, but for some reason, it didn't feel right.

He'd talk to Steve whenever they say each other next. Just to check. After all, Steve was his friend. His teammate. He didn't want to hurt him because of something so stupid.

* * *

“I'm offended by this.”

“Shut up and pass me the paper towels.”

Reluctantly, and moving as little as he possibly could, Tony uncrossed his arms, grabbed the paper towels from the kitchen counter next to him, and extended them out to Steve. He had to take a half-step forward to actually meet Steve's outstretched hand, much to his deep disappointment. As soon as Steve's fingers clenched around the plush roll of paper, Tony stepped back into his original position and recrossed his arms.

This was ludicrous.

“Though I guess I can't complain about the view,” Tony amended.

Steve was crouched on all floors on the floor of his apartment's kitchen, head and torso half-inside his open oven as he scraped away at it. His shoulders barely fit into the opening, much to Tony's bafflement—seriously, how big could one guy be?— but they did, and afforded him enough room to scrub however's-long worth of detritus from the bottom.

In response to Tony's comment, Steve didn't stop the motion of his scrubbing, but he did start to waggle his ass in time with the movement of his shoulders, slowing down the process just enough to be seductive. After a moment he leaned back and looked up at Tony. A lascivious wink completed the picture.

Tony just sneered and tossed the roll of paper towels at Steve's head. He laughed as they bounced off harmlessly, then proceeded to rip off a few more sheets and continue his work.

The kitchen was practically spotless, as it was. The counters, sinks, and microwave had all been cleaned. There were no empty plates in the sink, or food sitting out on the counter—besides a double-bundle of bananas supported neatly by a little banana hook in one corner. The chrome of the dishwasher, sink, fridge, and microwave were are sparkling. All that was left to do, as Steve had informed Tony when he showed up with breakfast burritos and liters of coffee, was to clean the oven and wash the floors. Tony had graciously opted to stay and “help”.

But apparently “help” didn't mean the same thing to Steve as it did to Tony. “Help” meant hand stuff to Steve and scrub at things and get his fingernails dirty. “Help” didn't mean “call up a maid service and get them to do it for Steve.”

Which was why Tony was reluctantly throwing things at Steve's head and otherwise occupying himself by alternately commenting on Steve's physique and texting Rhodey lewd jokes.

“I still reserve the right to be offended by this,” Tony pointed out as Steve crawled his way back into the oven. His shoulders moved and flexed beneath the thin white wife-beater he had on. It was damp with sweat and covered with dirt and grease. Apparently this was how Steve spent most his Saturdays, barring saving-the-world emergencies: cleaning his apartment top-to-bottom, doing his laundry, running errands, and routine maintenance on his suit. Tony could relate to the last part, at least, but the rest of it just left him with an uncomfortable sense of disloyalty, like he should be helping Steve rather than letting him do all this work all by his lonesome. Ergo: Tony's annoyance at his and Steve's differing definitions of “help.”

Steve said nothing, just held out his hand to Tony. Reluctantly Tony grabbed it and helped Steve to his feet. Steve popped up, all sweaty skin and matted blonde hair. Tony glanced down at his hand as Steve released it and wrinkled his nose. Ew. Grease. Or cleaner. Or something. Gross stuff.

Gingerly Tony reached out and wiped his hand off on Steve's undershirt. Not that it helped, with the way the material was soaked through with sweat and covered with grime itself.

Steve rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “Consider it payback for all the times you've gotten _me_ greasy when I came and visited you in the shop.”

“I could get you greasy,” Tony quipped without thinking. Before a smile could even half-quirk at Steve's lips and he could come up with some witty response, Tony continued: “Besides, that's lubricating grease, engine oil: good stuff. Not...” he gestured at the oven, “old, burnt... chicken guts.”

Steve merely tutted and started gathering up used paper towels and scrub brushes. After tossing out the trash, he grabbed a clorox wipe and started running it over the stainless steel front of the oven.

“Seriously, offended,” Tony continued. Steve was moving on to the fridge, for some reason. Oh. Tony rolled his eyes as Steve meticulously started taking food off the shelves and setting it on the counter, before going at the shelves with a bottle of 409 and some paper towels. “I could pay someone to do all this for you! With me as your best friend-”

Steve's voice cut him off from half-inside the fridge: “Bucky's my best friend.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Partner in arms,” he tried.

“That's really more Sam than you,” Steve pointed out.

Tony sighed and leaned back against the kitchen counter, drumming his fingers on the edge. “Well then what would you call me?”

Steve emerged from the fridge, dirtied rag in his hands. He seemed to consider Tony's question seriously for a moment, head cocked as he ran the rag under water from the tap, then rung it out. He set it on the edge of the sink and smiled.

“Benefactor?”

Tony snorted. “Please.”

“Patron?”

“You're making me sound like some kind of hedonist. 'Patron of the arts, benefactor to the greats...'”

With his smile reduced somewhat, Steve took one, then two stalking steps toward Tony. His eyelids dropped, lips quirking into something softer, more secret. Tony's breath quickened without him really knowing why.

“My Shellhead,” Steve tried again. He was crowding Tony against the counter now, bulk effectively hemming him in on all sides. Tony licked his lips involuntarily. “My Tony.”

“My Cap.”

Tony's heart was pounding in his chest faster than a pneumatic hammer at top speed. Steve leaned closer, crowding him more. Their chests were touching. Their hips. Tony twitched, a full-body spasm, the urge to run forward or sideways or-

Steve reached behind Tony and grabbed a handful of refrigerated items, stepping away from Tony with them in his arms and replacing them on their proper shelf. Then he repeated the process, taking the items off the next shelf, setting them on the counter, and scrubbing that shelf clean with his rag and bottle of 409.

Tony took the time that Steve was distracted by cleaning to rub lightly at the RT in his chest and take a deep breath. His heart was refusing to go back down to normal and it felt like he was having a heart attack. One minute, two, another shelf emptied, cleaned, refilled, before Tony felt close to normal again.

“You know what my favorite modern invention is?” Steve asked out of the blue. He was bent over the bottom of the fridge now, scrubbing the vegetable drawer. He had just removed some lump of blackish green ooze from the bottom and tossed in the trash, and was now scrubbing vigorously at the oozing stain left behind.

In the time it took him to blink, Tony had called up ten videos of Steve answering exactly that question in interviews. With a selfish, possessive glow of pride, Tony realized the vast majority of the time Steve had answered the question with some sort of Stark product: clean energy buildings, or his Stark Phone, or the Starkpedia.

Tony went with the most-repeated invention: “Starkpedia,” he said.

But Steve was smirking mischievously as he moved to replace the vegetables in the now clean drawer. “I just say that because I know it's good press for you.”

Tony frowned. Opened his mouth, then shut it. He wasn't sure if he should take that as a compliment or an insult. “But-”

Steve tossed the rag into the sink and wiped his hands on his jeans, expression now a touch sheepish. He rubbed the back of his head and shrugged. “It's so stupid. I mean, Starkpedia makes sense: It's big and it's amazing and it made catching up on everything a thousand times easier. It's genius: having all that information, but non-physical. Not having to hunt through the physical mass of data, instead having it all at-hand.”

“But...” Tony prompted.

Still grinning sheepishly, Steve stepped over to the counter and pulled another clorox wipe from the cylindrical tub. He waggled it at Tony before swiping it over the door of the fridge, wrapping it around the stainless-steel handle and stroking it up and down several times until it shined.

“Clorox wipes?” Tony asked.

Steve just grinned again and tossed the wipe into the trash.

“A _cleaning_ product?”

“It makes cleaning so easy,” Steve explained. “The stains that would take forever with soap and water just kind of... disappear. And it works for everything! I mean, soap and water and a little elbow grease does the trick, but these...”

Tony narrowed his eyes at Steve.

Steve grinned back. “But I'll keep saying it's Starkpedia. For you.”

Turning away from him, Steve opened the fridge again, sifting through the recently replaced items and checking them for... something. Oh. Tony realized he was checking expiration dates when Steve opened a jug of milk, sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose before setting it on the counter behind him. Two more items followed it: a moulding sandwich and an empty pat of butter. Tony poked at the sandwich.

“Hey, wasn't this...” Gingerly he peeled the saran wrap off the sandwich and peeled apart the moldy bread. The substance of the sandwich was made up of eggs, ham, what might have been avocado at one point... He recognized this sandwich. “This is Carol's.”

Steve shook his head. “It was in the Avengers fridge for thirteen days.”

“Thirteen days?” Tony cocked his head. “Is this some kind of rule I don't know about? Food free for anyone after thirteen days?”

“Not exactly. I noticed Jarvis throws out food if it's two weeks old. So any food that's thirteen days old I take out of the Avengers fridge and take home.”

Tony's nose crinkled in disgust. With as little touching as he could manage, Tony scooted the moldy sandwich into the trash.

“Jarvis probably has that rule because things start to _mold_ after two weeks. You're going to give yourself food poisoning.”

Steve shrugged and shut the fridge. He emptied out the milk into the sink, rinsing the jug and the butter carton before tossing the plastics into a separate recycling bin in the far corner of the kitchen. Tony rolled his eyes. Of course Captain America recycled.

He pulled out a wet mop for the floor, which Tony took as his cue to move himself to the doorway of the kitchen, off the floor. He drummed his fingers on the wood frame of the door impatiently.

“It's in a fridge,” Steve continued. “Until it actually has mold, it's fine. And refrigeration keeps things safe for more than just two weeks. Depending on what it is.”

Tony snorted. “Alright there, super-soldier. Not all of us have your cast-iron stomach.”

Steve paused in mopping the floor, glancing over his shoulder at Tony. His lips were quirked up in a grin. He turned back to mopping before replying, muscles in his back flexing and relaxing with the movements of the mop over the floor. “The Italians the apartment above us used to make minestrone and they never got sick. Had it a few times myself, back when I was a little sickly mite.”

That was... a weird way to try and prove his point. Tony frowned. “Well, yeah. That's just... vegetable soup, or something. Isn't it?”

Never stopping the motion of his mopping, Steve glanced over his shoulder, clearly shocked. “You don't know what minestrone was?

Well, when Steve put it like _that_ , Tony was pretty sure he didn't want to know. “I'm going to regret asking, aren't I?”

Steve turned away from Tony again, focusing on the last few passes over his kitchen floor. “It's vegetable soup, sure. But the way it used to be made... what'd they call it...” he said the last bit to himself. “Contormi? Contoni? The side dishes. Throughout the week they'd have the pot for the minestrone sitting on the oven, and they'd toss whatever veggies they had leftover from dinner all week—controni, I think they called them, that was it, the side vegetables—into the pot. Then at the end of the week they'd mix it all up with the broth and there you go. Minestrone.”

Tony was so caught up listening to that simply _unsanitary_ recipe that he hadn't noticed Steve moving backwards closer and closer to him. Steve's ass bumped into Tony's groin, causing Tony to jump back. Shit. Steve jumped a little, too, but managed to stop himself before he stepped forward into the wet linoleum of his kitchen floor and had a real accident. Instead he just turned around and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Watch it there,” he said.

“Afraid you might like it?”

It jumped out of Tony's mouth without him even thinking it, and as soon as it did Tony wanted to take it back. He was supposed to be more cautious around Steve, now: more worried about his feelings. At least until he gathered up the emotional maturity to have an actual _talk_ with Steve about the whole thing, double-check and make sure there was nothing... _more_ that Steve was waiting for. Hoping for. But right, he was Tony Stark: Hello foot, meet mouth, fuck you brain, with your delusions of rationality and control.

But Steve was grinning more sharply now. He set the mop aside and moved closer to Tony, crowding in backwards, out of the doorway. “Not really.” His voice was low, gravely. Tony's eyes widened as Steve took another step forward and he resisted the very strong urge to take an equalizing step backwards. “Pretty sure it'd be the other way around, actually.”

Tony gaped at Steve like a sucker fish as he moved smoothly past Tony and into the living room, where Tony had set his offerings of breakfast burritos on the coffee table.

“Hey!”

The sound that came out of Tony's mouth was more a squeak than a word. He cleared his throat and lowered his pitch before trying again. “Hey! I'm pretty sure that's homophobic. Or something. Bigoted. About gay dudes.”

“Offended?” Steve teased.

Tony grinned and threw himself down onto Steve's couch, bouncing lightly with the old springs. He shoved his shoulder into Steve's as the other man dropped down next to him. They both flashed grins at each other, Tony's ending with a wink. “Come on, you know my rep. Pretty much the opposite of gay, over here.”

Steve didn't say anything for a second, which sent a small jolt of worry through Tony. Except, Steve was currently tearing his teeth into half a breakfast burrito, and of course he didn't speak with his mouth full. So his lack of response was probably no cause for alarm. Maybe. Most likely.

Sure enough, as soon as he swallowed Steve replied: “Yeah. I know. Except that whole think with that Henry fellow...”

Tony snorted. Those old rumors. That old dog. “Yeah, right. Blame the media for all _that_ bullshit. May have done my fair share of womanizing back in the day, but there's kind of a key word there that should give you a hint about exactly what gender I was chasing.”

Steve's grin was much too mischievous for Tony's liking. “Never have I ever picked up a male prostitute,” he teased.

“One time!” Tony shouted. He groaned and slapped a hand over his face, slinking down on the couch. “Lemme tell you, Crystal was _stunning_. Real beauty. And she was wearing a scarf, so I didn't exactly get to do the Adam's apple test.” He groaned again as he remembered the shock he got when he reached a hand up Crystal's skirt. Yeah. _That_ wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting.

Tony munched on his own breakfast burrito for a moment, considering how to work this line of questioning over to Steve. Because Rhodey's concerns—everybody's damn concerns, it seemed like his business was now shared by half the Avengers, at this point—were still weighing on him. He had to make sure Steve wasn't having some late gay awakening over him. Not that Steve would, right? Even if he went gay, he'd never go for Tony. Still. Double-checking time. Never let it be said that Tony wasn't a good scientist. Test and retest.

Briefly Tony considered firing back something about Bucky and equating him to a male prostitute, but that would probably just send Steve moping and guilt-ridden over the young lives he'd put in danger in the past. A different tactic, then.

“Speaking of gay guys...” Steve stared blankly at Tony. Inwardly, Tony winced. Not his smoothest segue ever, he could admit that. Still, he forged on. “Seems like they're popping up all over, you know? Lately, I mean. You got those two kids on the Young Avengers, the mutant guys, few of them: Northstar, Rictor and Shatterstar are shacked up together, I hear. Mystique... Shit, it's all the X-Men, isn't it, I wonder if there's— point is, ever notice there's more of them, nowadays? Think there's something in the water?”

Steve predictably rolled his eyes at Tony's callous remarks. “It's not that there's suddenly _more_ , Tony. It's that it's becoming more accepted, less dangerous to be open about it. My friend Arnie was gay back in the forties, but no one could know about something like that back then. He probably barely understood it himself, growing up.”

Tony nodded, pretending to think about this for a second. “Right, but that's what I'm saying. Everything's more open, people are more free to be 'out', or whatever they're calling it. What I'm saying is: who do you think'll be next?”

“Next?” Steve seemed genuinely perplexed.

“To come out,” Tony explained.

Steve seemed to consider this seriously. “I suppose...” he shrugged. “Odds are for it, aren't they? That there are more homosexual superheroes. I'd never really considered it.”

“My money's on Carol,” Tony said.

“Carol would break your nose if she heard you say that,” Steve pointed out.

Tony laughed. “Come on, her and Jess? Or maybe her and Wanda, they've always had this _thing_ , you know?”

Steve shook his head. “I don't see it at all.”

“Alright...” And here was where Tony had to be careful, had to play his cards exactly right. “Well, who do you think? Got any pings on the gay-dar?”

Steve leaned over the table and munched on his burrito. “Well, if we include X-Men, Charles and Magneto have been getting along-”

“Xavier and Magneto are going to end up settled down in a villa together in Genosha in five years, give or take. That's a forgone conclusion. I've got a tux ready for their wedding.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He settled down to think some more. Tony watched him, taking in the way his blonde eyelashes flickered as his mind worked. “Johnny Storm.”

“What?!” Tony gaped at Steve. “Okay, we need to work on your gaydar. Because apparently it's tuned to... to the opposite of gay. Johnny's probably only second to me-” Tony stopped. Glared at Steve.

And of course Steve started to laugh.

“I hate you so much,” Tony grumbled. So his plan to try and out Steve wasn't going so well. It probably just meant what Tony had known all along: Steve wasn't gay, this wasn't going to end in catastrophe, and everyone else just needed to leave them to their business.

“Yeah, well... I think Luke Cage is!”

Steve snorted. “Luke Cage? Really? Family man? Happily married to a beautiful lady?”

Tony smirked. “You never know. Those monogamous types...”

“Uh-huh.” Steve smirked. “I see how it is.”

“You're not denying it?” Tony's stomach turned. Shit. Shit _shit_ rusted armor giving out mid-flight _shit_.

But Steve just laughed and nudged his shoulder into Tony's in an easy display of friendship. “You knuckle-head. Definitely not going to be the next to 'come out'. You can put good money on that.”

Tony smirked. “Yeah. Ditto there, buddy. Can't say I understand the appeal.”

Okay. Straightness double-checked. Blinking, Tony flicked on Steve's TV. Some news program or other was on, so he left it on. It was a suitable enough distraction from continuing this conversation. And sure enough, Steve lapsed into easy silence, biting into his third breakfast burrito with a happy sigh. He leaned back into the couch, and Tony relaxed with him. Everything was good between them. Everyone else just needed to stay out of it, and they'd be fine. 

 


	8. Chapter 7

 

The night was quiet—much more quiet than Steve was used to, from the sounds of the city rushing past his apartment window even at night. They were out of the city, in front of a little warehouse in upstate New York. The night was warm—almost too warm for the whole black catsuit stealth outfits the three of them were wearing, but it wasn't like a little bit of discomfort was going to stop the mission.

In front of him, Bucky came to a silent, nearly invisible stop beneath a grove of trees, just before they gave way to the empty land surrounding the warehouse. Steve stopped just short of Bucky's right shoulder. Next to him, Natasha came to an equally-silent stop behind Bucky's left shoulder. Next to the two master spies, Steve felt downright clunky. Less so than he might have if he had the shield on him. In the past he would have brought the old girl with him if there was any chance of combat.

Bucky held up one hand in a closed fist. Natasha moved a half-step forward, grazed his elbow with her fingertips. Steve waited as Bucky tilted his head to look at her, and the two shared a silent conversation. Fifteen seconds, maybe thirty, and then Natasha was stepping back again.

Bucky's hand went up again, this time opened and snapped forward. Then he stepped out of the grove of trees, hunched over and running to the warehouse. Steve waited one second, two, three. He counted the steps Bucky took, estimated how much longer his stride was, how much more quickly he could get to the warehouse. It wasn't much, but things like tis mattered.

A low hoot, a barn owl. Steve snapped into action, racing across the open ground. Three steps less than Bucky and he was at his side, back pressed tight to the warehouse outer wall, clinging to the shadows. A few seconds later and Natasha was there with them, faster and more silent than either man.

There was a window about twenty feet above their heads. A small thing, and closed. Bucky and Natasha moved together without sharing a word. She jumped, his robotic arm shot out, palm up, low to the ground. When she landed on it Bucky pushed upwards with a low grunt, catapulting her into the air. She grabbed onto the tiny ledge of the window, feet planting firmly on the footholds the mortar in the brickwork allotted her. A quiet click, barely more noise than a moth fluttering against a light, interrupted the silence of the night as Natasha plied her trade on the locked window. When Steve next blinked, Natasha was gone and the window was closed behind her. It was like she was never there.

Bucky and Steve moved then, hurrying around the warehouse to a back door. It was cracked by the time they got there, a sliver of SHIELD-issued residue-less duct tape stuck over the latch. Bucky moved in first, hand snapping out and pulling the tape off the door and tucking it away. No indication they were ever there.

Natasha was already in a room on their left, flipping through files rapidly. As Bucky and Steve entered the room she kicked a box over to Bucky, while simultaneously pointing with her left hand at another box off that direction. She didn’t stop reading for a second. Steve shared a glance at Bucky, nodding his head at Bucky’s proud grin. Yeah. She was a swell lady, that was for sure.

Steve started on the boxes Natasha had indicated, Bucky doing the same with the box she had kicked. There were thousands of pages of records here, information that Zola didn’t trust on computers. Why exactly he trusted them on paper in an ill-guarded warehouse, Steve would never know. Maybe it had something to do with being old-fashioned, like he was: men of another era. Maybe Zola had compromised too many computer systems himself to ever trust anything of import on them, especially when the Avengers had men like Tony on their side. Whatever the reason, Steve was grateful, because it meant he could gain access to the files the old-fashioned way. And old-fashioned was fine by him.

“Five minutes,” Natasha whispered, voice barely disturbing the air an inch past their ears. Steve nodded and kept searching, reading as fast as his training and eidetic memory would allow. There was something in here: there had to be. Zola wouldn’t keep a warehouse of fileboxes and spare parts under lock and key unless there was something important to be found.

“Two minutes.”

He found it. In a hanging folder labeled “Körper,” Steve found a series of notes about mechanical engineers. They were HR forms, essentially, but Steve knew a desperate bid when he saw one. This was important. This was the crux of... something. Maybe everything. He wasn’t sure what it meant yet, but he knew this was it.

Pulling out his phone, Steve quickly scanned the entire contents of the folder, then put it back in its filebox. He twirled his finger in the air, indicating to Bucky and Natasha to wrap it up. Quick as could be, the spies went about their work of setting the room back to rights. Thirty seconds and everything was back to how it was when they walked in; sixty seconds and they were back in the grove of trees surrounding the warehouse, hurrying back to their rendezvous point.

They didn't speak a word until they got to the diner outside of town. Not even until they got into the car and were driving downstate, back to New York. Then Bucky turned around from the front seat to look back at Steve. Natasha kept her head forward, but her eyes flickered from the road to Steve in the rearview mirror.

“So?” Bucky asked. “What'd you get?”

Steve pulled out his phone and fiddled with it as he began to talk. “I'm not sure. Something about building a body... building it in a way that requires more mechanical expertise than Zola has.” Steve frowned at his phone. He didn't want to _tweet_ the damn files, just wanted to... Oh, there it is. Steve frowned as he sent the files to Bucky and Natasha's phone. He'd have to talk to Tony about making these more secure. There shouldn't be a “tweet” or “instagram” option when he was dealing with covert files.

“Didn't Zola build his first body?” Bucky asked.

Natasha cut in: “Grew it. It's an organic body.”

Steve flipped through the files again, even though he could remember everything on them. Maybe he missed something in his haste. “These are definitely mechanical,” he said. “Look, this? It's electrical schematics. I know because it looks like stuff Tony showed me before. And here? This is an exoskeletal design.”

“You think Zola's building... what? A robot?” Bucky asked. “That's not exactly his style.”

Steve sat back in his seat. No. No, it wasn't: Zola genetically engineered monsters, experimented on people, tried to kidnap Steve for his super-soldier serum-enhanced blood.

“What if it's just for him...” Steve mused. He looked down at the diagrams some more, trying to understand what he was seeing. It was difficult, but thanks to years spent nodding and smiling while Tony yammered on about some new tech, Steve had actually managed to absorb quite a lot. More than he had realized, even.

“There's room in these for organic systems,” Steve said. He pointed at a hole in the center, surrounded by electrical relays and what he thought were transistors, probably. “I think he's going to put his brain here. He's building a new body for himself—maybe the old one is aging, injured? Maybe it's finally giving up the ghost.”

Bucky was pinching at his phone, expanding and contracting the photos as he nodded along with Steve. “But this isn't Zola's MO. He doesn't do mechanical systems.”

Steve's excitement grew. “But maybe that's why he needs someone else. Maybe that's why he hired all the engineers he did, especially the ones with bio-mechanical knowledge. He needs to build a new body, but he's unable to do it himself.”

Bucky looked skeptical. “But he built that device that transferred his brain, didn't he? You know: when he switched from normal body to crazy body in the first place: there was some sort of machine that did the transfer. Doesn't that mean he's got some engineering knowledge.”

Steve shrugged. “A lot has changed in the past seventy years. Maybe he found something better. Maybe that's why he needs some help fixing him: because the device he built himself wasn't perfect. I'm not saying I know everything, but...” Something else occurred to Steve. He straightened up in his seat, excitedly leaning forward toward Bucky. “This could be why we haven't pinged any kidnappings! He's working on something for _himself_. Maybe he'll kidnap a few people, try it out before he implements it on himself, but he doesn't _need_ massive amounts of people if he's working on one project.”

“That's a lot of scientists for one project,” Bucky pointed out. He remained obviously unconvinced. “Why would he hire all these people—who are just the ones we _know about_ , who knows how many other people he's got working for him—when his endgame is a single invention?”

Steve sat back, considering this. His fingers drummed on the window ledge of the car as he thought. “It could just be the start,” he mused. “Or it could be that it's that important to him. We're talking about his life, after all.”

“I don't think it adds up,” Bucky grumbled. He flicked through the pages some more. “It's too big an operation. And why have a warehouse in New York state if he's operating in Russia?”

Natasha tapped her fingers lightly on the steering wheel. “Last place we'd expect it. Redundancy for safety. Who knows?”

Headlights flared and then went dim as cars flew past them on the interstate. Natasha was taking them back downstate, back to the city. Steve watched the lights. It was times like this that he could almost pretend he was back in the nineteen-forties. Times when the world was dark around him, when the changing architecture and lines of the cars weren't visible. Just light and darkness, and his friend Bucky's voice in his ear, the warmth of a car around him. So long as he ignored the futuristic glow from the dash of the car, or didn't look to closely at the clothes he was in, the shoes on his feet, or Bucky's bionic arm.

“Maybe it's just phase one,” Steve mused. He turned away from the window to look at Bucky again. “But it's definitely a part of it.” He could feel it. Call it a hunch, or soldier's intuition, or even arrogance. But Steve thought he knew Zola better than most, and had good reason to think what he did. Zola was building himself a new body, and needed help. That's what all those engineers and bio-mechanical experts were for. For some reason he was having difficulty growing one; for some reason the last one was breaking down. And this was some sort of important part of his plan: get himself a new body. He just needed some help with it.

Bucky didn't seem satisfied with this answer, but he stopped disagreeing and turned back around in his seat, facing forward. Natasha said something softly to him in Russian—Steve didn't try to figure out what it was. Instead he settled back in his seat and stared out the window, watching the spots of light which represented cars blur past him on the highway. He remembered a night like this a few months ago, when Tony was showing him a new piece of tech: gauntlets with optical sensors in them, that would allow him to steer without even looking at the road so long as his hands were on the wheel. Steve had marveled at the tactical advantage it gave him—Tony had lewdly suggested what else it could be used for.

Steve's own reflection in the car window smiled back at him. Tony could be a real jerk sometimes, but he was a good man. Brilliant, too, and selfless when it counted. Steve could still remember when he first woke up from the ice, how Iron Man had been standing there, waiting to try and help him. And then Mr. Stark, Avengers' benefactor, had stepped in and given him a place to stay. A home, really, with the lengths he had gone through to set it up nice and comfortable. He had even included a pin-up girl poster on the wall for Steve, like _that_ was the finishing touch that would make him feel comfortable. And in a strange way, it had: not so much the poster, but the fact that someone cared, that someone had _tried_ for Steve. That someone still would look out for him, have his back, even in this new and foreign world he had awoken to.

A loud beeping filled the car. Steve's, Bucky's and Natasha's hands all went for their Avengers' ID cards, where the noise was coming from. With fluid competence Natasha snapped her into the center console of the car. A moment later a hologram filled the interior, displaying Ms. Marvel's domino mask and wild blonde hair, a battle raging behind her.

“Avengers Assemble,” she commanded.

Steve reached for a shield that wasn't there, body itching to get out of this tin can that had felt so safe and cozy not seconds before.

A faint “I got it!” was heard on the line. Steve's heart clenched. That was Tony's voice.

Ms. Marvel glanced behind her, exasperation seeping out of her every pore. She flicked her hair over her shoulder as she turned back to the camera. “Coordinates sent to your IDs. We could use the help if you're close.”

The car accelerated rapidly, Natasha's grip on the steering wheel causing her leather gloves to groan under the pressure. “We'll be there in ten,” she replied.

Carol signed off with a wink, already flying back into the fray before the video feed ended.

Steve felt his unease rise, exacerbated by his confinement in the car. He needed to be out there, _now_ , or at least in control of his transportation. As it was he had to sit back and let Natasha handle things; trust her to get them to their destination with all due haste. It wasn't that he didn't trust Natasha: of course he did. It was just that at right this second Steve kind of wanted to knock her into Bucky's lap and take over driving himself.

Steve stared straight ahead at the back of Natasha's headrest and took one breath, then two, then three. He let each of them out in longer and longer exhales, trying to calm the itchy nerves and adrenaline already trying to pump its way through his body. Not yet. Ten minutes. Not yet. Steve checked the photonic shield on his arm. Then he checked his watch. Not a minute had passed. Steve shifted in his seat and stared out the window, jaw clenching. Damn it.

In the front seat, Bucky was going through his own weapons' check. Since they had all just been on an op, it wasn't like they weren't ready for combat. Bucky was just more stealthy than Captain America would normally be. And without the shield.

This was way Steve brought the old girl with him, even on stealth missions. You never knew what you might run into, how the situation might change.

But he wasn't Captain America anymore. Bucky was. He'd just have to trust his friend.

Bucky glanced back at him after the last of his equipment apparently checked out. “Good?”

Steve glanced away, fearing his eyes might betray too much even in the dim illumination offered by the dash and intermittent street lamps. He wasn't even sure what he was hiding: right now his chest was crackling with adrenaline, worry, and something that felt like hurt, or betrayal. Which didn't make any sense, and wasn't about to be helpful for him in getting himself ready for battle. He needed to be clear-headed for that. So Steve shoved down whatever turbulent emotions were rising in his chest and replied to Bucky.

“Ready.”

There was a pause, during which time Steve knew Bucky was studying him. Even if he couldn't see Bucky's face turned to him in the window Steve was staring out of, Steve could feel his gaze on him. But Steve was still trying to get himself under control, to mentally prepare himself for battle. So he let Bucky think whatever he wanted to think and didn't prompt him to voice what was on his mind.

Bucky did, anyway, because Bucky was a brat like that. Some things never changed.

“You know Stark can handle himself.”

Steve blinked. Despite his best, more serious intentions, Steve found himself turning to look at Bucky. “What?”

Bucky's brow was drawn low, his eyes dark. But his voice was even when he spoke. Even bordering on kind, but God forbid Steve ever point that out to Bucky.

“You're worried about him-”

“I worry about all the Avengers when I'm not there,” Steve pointed out.

Bucky continued as if Steve never spoke. “But he's Iron Man. He'll be fine. Tony's-”

“Tony doesn't have the best track record for taking care of himself,” Steve snapped.

Bucky fell silent. Steve took a breath. Darn it. He'd cut Bucky off _twice_ , and when Bucky was just trying to be kind to him, considerate of his feelings. Even if his presumptions were completely off, Bucky was doing a nice thing, and Steve had to recognize that: not be cruel, even if it was unintentional.

“Sorry,” he said. He forced himself to meet Bucky's eyes. “Of course the Avengers-” because that's what this was about, not Tony in _specific_ , “can handle themselves. I'll just feel better when we get there.”

Bucky grunted and turned back around. Natasha murmured something in Russian to him, and he murmured something right back. The tone of the words weren't angry, or even hurt, so Steve didn't worry about it. Instead he sat back in his seat and stared out the window. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bucky reach over and place his robotic hand gently on Natasha's thigh. Steve turned his focus more pointedly out the window. He just needed to get to the Avengers, get to fighting, and he'd feel worlds better.

And maybe he needed to make sure Tony didn't do something stupid like sacrifice himself to save everybody else. Even for a superhero, that man had a distressingly low self-preservation instinct. And he had been in the process of telling Carol not to call them, that he “had it.” That was never a good sign, with Tony.

The journey should have taken an hour—given speed limits and distance. Natasha held mostly true to her word to make it in ten. As they approached the outer limits of New Jersey—apparently this attack was focused on Stark Resilient headquarters, which was just... Steve gritted his teeth and did his best not to crush the photonic shield generator as he adjusted it on his wrist—they hit the ten minute mark. Steve's blood felt like it was boiling under his skin. This was that group again, that villain with the organic armor Tony was so interested in. They were after _Tony_ , they were after his tech and his business.

And Tony had shouted at Carol the he “got it.” Because it was his problem, and he didn't feel like anyone else needed to get involved. Tony wanted to take it down himself, and he would want to take it down quickly.

Of course, every minute that they spent getting to the scene of the battle was another minute that it continued. And every minute the battle continued increased the chance for collateral damage exponentially. More buildings got damaged, more fires began to rage: more people had more of a chance of getting injured in all sorts of new ways thanks to the damage the villains were causing. Every minute they spent getting to the battle was just going to increase Tony's desperation to end it, to stop the villain no matter the cost, in an effort to try and keep that collateral damage down.

They'd all seen what collateral damage could do. What conflicts it could start. Tony would probably be most desperate of all of them to end a fight before it got that far.

When they started to get close enough—about five miles out—Tony's voice started crackling through over their comms. The other Avengers' voices were audible too, of course. Steve just wasn't finding himself clutching at the earpiece nearly hard enough to crack it for anyone's voice but Tony's.

“I got this!”

“No you don’t!” Ms. Marvel's voice was sharp on the comm line, even though the signal wasn't its strongest at this distance.

“Back off, Ms. Marvel,” Tony snapped. “I've had enough time to analyze it, I _got_ this. Pull everyone else back.”

“Stop being a pig-headed idiot, Iron Man,” Carol snapped back.

Steve's head was hanging low over his chest, gaze practically burning holes into his black tactical pants. His right hand was up at his ear, clutching at the comm like it was his only lifeline on a storm sea. In a way, it was. Except it was also the source of the storm raging inside Steve at this moment.

“Five miles.” Bucky's voice, in the seat in front of him.

Steve's head snapped up, assessing traffic. It was stopped. Probably because they were trying to head toward a battle that the police would have surely barricaded off right now. They weren't getting any closer.

Not faster than Steve could run, at least.

He was out of the car before Bucky could call out and stop him. Before Natasha could curse in Russian and slap the car into park. Steve was three city blocks away before he even heard Bucky and Natasha go live on the comms, having abandoned the car in pursuit of him. His feet ate up the dark pavement, practically leaping from one streetlight-illuminated circle of concrete to the next.

He didn't really care about what they were doing. What he cared about was running as fast as he possibly could to get to Tony, to... to balance him out. To stop him from doing something _stupid_ _,_ something ridiculously, _needlessly_ self-sacrificing. No one else on the team could bring Tony around to reason as well as Steve could. No one else was as practiced at talking Tony down from the ledge.

Not that it worked, half the time.

Steve grimaced to himself and kept running, listening to the battle grow clearer with every block, with every stride, over his comm.

Tony was apparently still trying to explain to the Avengers why they needed to fall back and let him handle this.

“Listen, look: it’s got organic nervous system—score ten bucks to myself off Pepper, _ha—_ and it’s got a network, too. An overarching network, they’re communicating... This is taking too long just let me _do it!_ ”

“Iron Man, you _stand down_!” Carol's voice growled over the comms. A grunt, a groan. Then an explosion. Carol must have taken a hit, but she had hit right back twice as hard. Steve felt a small current of pride beneath all the worry and adrenaline dominating his inner world at the moment. His Avengers would always make him proud, even if they weren't _his_ Avengers at the moment.

Tony's voice, utterly recognizable to Steve, even mixed in with all the other voices and sounds of the battle, crackled over the comms again. He was grunting, shouting. The distinctive noise of the repulsors firing filled Steve's senses as he ran, and ran, and ran. He was getting closer to the battle—three miles out, maybe three and a half. He thought he could start to hear it, in the distance. A shout over the line almost stopped Steve's heart—Tony's shout. But then he was growling and the whine of the repulsors flaring up sounded again.

“I just gotta overload them! And I only have to overload _one_ , aka _me_ , to make them all go kablooy! It’s perfect!”

Steve was a mile out. Three minutes. He ran harder.

Clint's voice crackled over the lines. “Hey Jess, get the-”

“Got 'em.”

Several explosions.

“Wham!” Clint's laughter filtered over the sound of the explosions. “Ha, take _that_ you hunks of junk.”

“Excuse you.” Jess' voice.

“Right, right: nice wrangling, spidergal.”

“Spider _woman_.”

“Want to prove that last part to me? Maybe after dinner?”

“Cut the chatter!” Carol's voice was almost shrill as she cut off Jess and Clint's flirting—if that's what it was. Steve couldn't think about that right now. Couldn't think of anything except getting air into his lungs, the fire in his muscles, the strain of his tendons as he tried to run faster, faster.

Half a mile. Half a mile and he could stop Tony.

Carol, bless her, was doing her best. “Where is the part where you overload yourself to death “perfect”?

“It’s not to _death,_ ” Tony snapped.

“Find a way to do it without getting yourself in the line of fire. Can’t you overload one of them, if they’re all connected?”

Three blocks out. Carol was keeping him talking, keeping Tony from going through with his insane plan for at least a minute more. Steve was going to buy her the nicest thing he could think of, after this. Maybe a plane. Would she want a plane, now that she could fly? He'd buy her something.

Tony's rapid-fire technobabble filled Steve's ears. He clung to it as he flung himself over police barricades, propelled himself over abandoned cars and increasing piles of rubble. Close, closer. “They’re connected but not centralized. Presumably to prevent against them all exploding when one goes down, presumably to prevent against exactly what I want to do. But they’re built the same way I am, they’ve got the same sort of biomechanical signature I do. If I hook in, I can convince them I’m central. Then when I overload _myself_ , they’ll all overload and go dead.”

“Everything you just said only served to convince me less.”

“It won’t kill me!” Tony’s voice was thick with frustration. “It’s only... okay, it’s like a three percent chance.”

“No.”

“Oh come on! It’s like a three in a hundred chance. Odds of dying in a car crash are the same! One in ninety-eight.”

Steve did the math. Then he made a sharp left, actually kicking himself off a parked car to give himself the momentum he needed to change directions. There they were. He could see Tony and Carol blasting at the armors, both in their own ways. Tony was a blur of red and gold, sheathed in a near-constant aurora of white-hot blue from his repulsors. Carol was glowing golden, energy blasts flaring past Tony's own to take out armors that he missed. Their explosive powers was turning the predawn street to day, giving Steve plenty of light to assess the scene by.

Steve pressed a hand to his comm even as he flung himself over the top of a car. “That’s a one-point-zero-two percent chance, Tony. You’re talking triple that--and that’s only based on what you’re telling us.” His photonic shield went active even as he started the motion to throw it. An armor that was coming up on Tony was caught by it. The armor barely changed directions: starting slightly with the impact but then continuing right on. Steve grimaced as the shield came back to him. These were even better than before. Tougher to take down. It was no wonder Tony was getting desperate.

Still, Steve's voice over the line was enough to startle Iron Man into turning around. He blasted the armor coming behind him—blasted it to the ground, then kept blasting a hole in it until it stayed down.

Tony was back up in the air without a how-do-you-do. Steve wasn't offended by this. They were in the middle of battle. That's how it was. At least, that's what he had to tell himself.

Tony's voice sounded guilty over the comm when he finally replied. “Steve! So, uh. Shit. When did you get here?”

“You’re not doing it, Tony.”

Steve threw himself over a car as another armor got too close. He felt his back burn with the heat from its repulsor blasts as he sprung away. Too close. And... wrong. What was wrong? Steve didn't have time to think. Spinning around while simultaneously using the car for cover, Steve threw the shield as hard as he could. It connected solidly with the armor, just under a gap in the neck.

The shield dropped like a rock—it didn't bounce back. The armor was undaunted. Fiddling with his wrist-strap, Steve called the shield back to him electronically.

Darn it. These armors were the toughest of the lot they'd fought so far. It was no wonder Tony was considering going off the deep-end with his tactics. But it still didn't make them acceptable.

A sharp blast rocked the earth, sending Steve sprawling backwards into the car. A sonic shockwave hit him a half second later, flattening him again. Grunting, Steve rolled himself under the car—a truck, actually, hence the only reason he was able to squeeze under it—and waited out the blasts. From his position he could see two armors, which were entirely unaffected by the explosions. Tony's armor whizzed past, similarly unaffected. Steve grimaced. They were too much like Tony's-

Wait. Beneath his cover of the truck, Steve stretched his back. _Burning_. That wasn't right.

In one movement Steve rolled out from under the truck and tossed the shield. It connected with an armor's hand. As he caught the shield on the rebound, Steve was already off running, dodging repulsor blasts. He could only hope...

An explosion. Steve grinned even as he ducked behind a dumpster, letting the sturdy metal taking the brunt of the blast.

“Iron Man!” Steve pressed a finger to his comm.

“Nice shot, Cap. Saw that.”

“Commander,” Steve pointed out, with no real heat behind the words. He just figured maybe he should draw the distinction before Bucky and Natasha showed up.

“It's a different energy,” Steve pointed out. “It-”

“No it's not.” Tony's armor did a loop-de-loop as he tried to take down another armor. Damn thing didn't even flinch. Tony's grunts were loud over the comms.

Steve growled and pressed a hand harder to his ear. “Stark, _listen_ to me. The repulsors: they _burn_. That's how I took it out: I hit the repulsor ports on the palms. I didn't get a great look, but I think when it tried to fire from that hand it blew itself up.”

“What do you mean it burns?”

Instead of Tony sounding relieved with this new piece of information, he sounded panicked. Even more than he had earlier, when he was trying to convince Carol to let him take out the armors by 'overloading' himself, whatever that meant.

But Steve had just managed to take one of them down by exploiting this information. Why wasn't Tony thinking along the same lines as him?

While Tony was busy trying to drive the armor he was engaged with to the ground, Steve turned his attention to the comms. “Ms. Marvel, tell the rest of the Avengers to aim for the repulsor ports. They're working off a different system from Tony's armor: if you can damage that, then-”

“Don't!” Tony's voice cut in. “Don't, everybody _don't_!”

“Tony-”

“Cap, listen to me:” Tony's voice was scared. _Pleading_. Steve blinked and stood up, on instinct. A repulsor blast grazed the side of his tactical gear as he did, causing him to drop back down behind the dumpster. Damn it. He pressed a hand to his side and pulled it away. Half bloody, half burnt. Great. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't exactly pleasant. Steve gritted his teeth and decided to get himself out of this alley before he got pinned down.

As Steve _moved_ , hurling himself out of the alley and tossing his shield to deflect the inevitable stream of repulsor blasts that followed him, he replied to Tony: “You've got my attention, Iron Man.” Steve glanced to his left, keeping the wall of the building he was running along to his right. Four armors, converging on the alley he had just bolted from, now focusing their blasts onto him. With a grunt Steve kicked off the wall of the building on his right, propelling himself into the street. He dropped and rolled, shield firmly over his head to deflect the repulsor blasts. He was on the other side of the armors now, and although they were fast, they still had to take time to turn around. And it was still slower to do in midair, without a solid surface to change momentum with, like Steve had just done.

Steve took a moment to glance ahead. Stark Resilient was visible down the road: glowing bright and cheery against the dark of night. He hadn't noticed before—he'd been too focused on making sure Tony didn't do anything stupid. But now he could see the building, not even two blocks down. Judging by the patterns of scorch marks along the street and piles of debris, the armors were getting there, slowly but surely. The Avengers weren't holding them off well enough: merely stalling for time.

“Steve, remember how I said they're connected?”

Tony was talking to him over a private line, Steve realized. That wasn't good. With a surge of energy, Steve sprinted down the street, trying to get to the front lines. He head to keep the armors away from Tony's company. Tony's workshop. Tony's _home_. Tony had been building it from the ground up for months now: it wasn't right, to let these things destroy all that. Steve had to put a stop to it, no matter what.

“What's that have to do with the energy, Iron Man?” Steve grunted. He was getting close to short of breath, he was pushing himself so hard. One more block. One more block and he'd be ahead of the armors, he'd be able to start taking them down one-by-one, keeping them from Stark Resilient. He just had to hit them in their repulsor ports and hope they tried to fire with the damaged port. Shouldn't be the worst strategy he ever tried: just slow and steady.

“Watch.”

Distracted from his goal for a moment, Steve glanced over his shoulder and watched as Tony came blazing toward him. He stopped just short of another armor, very clearly targeting its repulsor port in its palm. A few more seconds, a few blasts from undamaged ports, and then the armor made the mistaking of lifting its damaged hand up to fire. It exploded, except...

Steve threw himself behind a car, then was flattened against a storm drain in a gutter as the car was lifted over his head by the force of the blast.

Steve struggled to get his breath back, panicking for two seconds as he thought maybe the force of the blast had collapsed a lung. Then he sucked a chestful of air into him, coughing and heaving. The grit from the storm drain was pressed into Steve's cheek, his arm, his hand. Slowly Steve managed to slide himself out of it where he had been blown partially in. The side that had been grazed by the armors' new repulsor blasts screamed at him as it dragged along the rough concrete of the drain. Steve grit his teeth and ignored the pain, slowly crawling out until he could push himself to his feet.

“Iron Man!” Carol's voice over the comms. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“ _That_ was a demonstration, for you more hands-on learning types,” Tony snapped. He was talking over the open comms again. Steve eyed his surroundings. The other armors were keeping their distance from the blast site, if only for a few seconds. Steve took that time to put his hands on his knees and breathe.

He got Tony's point. He didn't need it spelled out for him.

Tony did anyway: “Commander Caution-to-the-Wind over here discovered that you can blow them up by damaging their repulsor ports, right?” Tony snarked. “ _Except_ , like _I_ said fucking five hours ago when these things first showed up and tried to attack _my_ damn facilities: they're all _connected_. You blow up one, the others absorb the energy equally. Each one you blow up-”

“-increases in energy,” Steve finished for him. “The explosions get bigger every time. Iron Man, what's-”

Tony was already ready for him. “There's four dozen armors converging on Stark Resilient. By the time we blew up the last one, the explosion would be equivalent to four kilotons of TNT.”

“Steve.” Tony was on a private line again. Steve's breath caught in his throat with the seriousness of Tony's voice. “Steve, it'll be like someone dropped a nuke in Jersey City. I've got to do this.”

“Iron Man,” Steve growled. The armors were regrouping, heading for Steve again. Or rather, heading for Stark Resilient again. And Steve was in the way. He hefted his shield, staring down the armors. There had to be a way to stop them without hurting anyone. There was always a way. “Tony,” Steve said, because maybe _that_ would register through Tony's thick skull, “I heard you say my way wouldn't work. I never heard anything about _suicide_ being the only other option. I'll slow them down: You work something else out.”

Shoulder muscles straining, Steve pulled the shield back and flung it at the nearest armor, aiming not for any repulsor port, but for the neck. As the shield flew away from him, Steve jumped on top of the car nearest him—one that had been flipped over onto its roof from the blast Tony had caused. Steve's feet scrambled at the mess of axels, exhaust pipes, and otherwise twisted, torn metal on the underside of the car. The metal was still superheated from the blast, but Steve's boots were only on it for a split second, his fingertips only barely grazing the nearly liquid surface, before he was leaping off again, propelling his body higher. His goal was the ledge on the building in front of him, at the second-story window line.

He landed easily, already spinning around and propelling himself off the crumbling brick and mortar. He was aiming for the armor that he had flung his shield at—just now embedding itself in the armor's neck. There was an armor in front of him, hovering between him and the one his shield had hit, but if he landed on it, he could launch himself onto the armor he had thrown his shield at.

Steve breathed, and jumped.

The armor in front of Steve moved away. He didn't even have time to widen his eyes in shock before he was falling, careening through the air back down to the ground. But before he could tuck his body and roll, lessening the impact, he stopped falling. Tony had caught him.

He didn't have to think, or talk, or discuss. Tony kept his momentum, heading forward and for the armor Steve had thrown his shield at. Steve only had to let go at the right time and he landed, feet first, onto the shoulders of the armor. He reached forward with a smooth movement and pulled his shield out of its neck. Then he raised it high and brought it down on the armor's neck: once, twice, three times. The armor barely moved under his assault. Wind whipped at his hair, the acrid smoke from the previous two explosions burning his eyes. Steve grimaced and tried to do more than just hold on: he tried to bring the armor down. With a growl Steve brought the shield down a half-dozen, a dozen more times on the same spot on the armor's neck. His thighs slipped but held on the smooth surface of the armor, wrapped around its shoulders.

A chink in the armor. Steve replaced the shield back onto its wrist-strap before plunging his right hand into the hole. He ripped at the metal, pulled it back with his bare hands. His tactical gloves were torn, fingers bleeding. They'd heal. When the hole was big enough for two fists, Steve shoved his hands instead and started plundering: tearing wires and screws and bolts and... oh mother and country, it was _bleeding_ , it was bleeding all _over him_. Swallowing down horror and disgust, Steve kept tearing, ripping out things that were much to soft to be mechanical, fingers sliding in liquid that wasn't engine oil and grease.

Beneath him the armor started shuttering, started to go to ground. Steve kept his thighs wrapped tight around it, kept digging at the wires and veins and whatever-the-heck-else his hands could grasp from the interior workings of the machine.

A foot from the ground Steve propelled himself off, landing on all fours just in time to watch the armor crash spectacularly... but _not_ explode. Steve breathed a sigh of relief, then looked up. One down.

Steve glanced behind him. Somehow he'd been pushed back another block. Stark Resilient was clearly visible just down the street. He looked up again. Even without Tony's advanced information-gathering sensors, he could count. There were at _least_ another three-dozen units still in the air, even given the ones Carol and Tony had managed to beat into submission, or Clint, Jess, and Spiderman had managed to demobilize.

Damn.

It was going to be too much. But maybe if they bought enough time, maybe if he kept fighting, bringing them down one by one, Tony would be able to figure out some other solution. He'd be able to see the third option, clear his head long enough to think laterally, cut the Gordian knot. Steve refused to believe the suicidal option Tony had been proposing earlier was their only one, short of blowing Jersey off the map. And that wasn't an option—even if Clint thought it wasn't a halfway unappealing notion.

“You done the math, Cap?”

Tony's armor was flying about him, pounding another armor to the ground and ripping out its insides in a horribly gruesome fashion. Seeing the two armors attacking each other, ripping each other's bloody innards out like a pair of wild dogs—it was like an art project, like some kind of commentary on the brutality of evolution and nature still contained within humanity's soaring technological achievements. Steve watched with something like awe, but something else like disgust, as Tony ripped an entire line of veins out of the armor in a single movement. He dropped the criss-crossing network of red, branching tubes to the ground, where it hit with a wet _smack_. Steve could hear it even over the sound of the battle raging around him.

“I can stall them,” Steve answered. Tony was talking to him on their private line again. That wasn't good. “Carol and I, we can take them down. Clint and our Spiders can immobilize them. We can do this _together_ , Tony. As a team. We just need to get you enough time-”

“They're knocking on my door, Steve,” Tony pointed out. He wasn't moving from the armor he had ripped apart, Steve suddenly realized. He was... _digging into it_ , ripping out its innards and playing with them. A sense of dread welled up in Steve. Tony was going to do it. Tony was going to _kill himself_ to stop this.

Steve wasn't going to let him.

He was running across the street before the thought finished, before his conscious mind caught up to what his unconscious mind had figured out. Tony was still messing with the downed armor, pulling pieces out and tossing them aside, hanging on to other pieces he must be deeming important. Steve ducked and dodged as he ran down the street, trying to move faster than Tony.

“What do you say I answer it?”

“Tony!” Steve shouted.

Tony was moving faster than him. Tony was always moving faster than him, it seemed. He had Extremis. He had technology. Tony was the future: always ahead of Steve, always faster, always overwhelming him. For all his muscles and sinew and vim and vigor, Steve could never keep up with Tony. Steve's eyes stung as he ran, focus on Tony: Tony in front of him, Tony half a block away, fingers of the armor moving faster and faster over the remains of the downed armor, doing things that Steve could never possibly fathom.

“Tony, don't!” Steve shouted again. “Tony!” He was never going to reach him in time.

“You know, the noble thing to say would be something like ‘don’t watch this,’ huh?” Tony's voice was almost a whisper over their private line.

Steve was twenty meters away. “Tony, don’t you dare.” Ten.

“Yeah, but who ever said I was noble? Hey Steve:”

“ _Tony!_ ”

“Watch this.”

A flash. A hum—outside the register of normal human hearing, but Steve could hear it.

And then the world dropped down around Steve.

Armor fell from the sky, crashing to the street like a swarm of gnats caught in a bug-zapper. But all Steve could see was what was right in front of him: Tony, dropping like rock. Steve managed to reach him before he fell—in time to catch him, too late to stop him.

Frantically Steve pawed at the armor, fingers catching at the little manual releases he knew were in it. There: under the arms, on the inner thighs. The armor fell away from Tony in a moment, hard and heavy: nothing like the liquid metal it seemed to be when Tony was controlling it, when Tony was peeling it back and forth from his bones with ease.

Not knowing if it would do any good but not caring in the least, Steve laid Tony out flat on the ground, clearing a spot of as much debris and armor as he could with a quick sweep of his arms. Ignoring the panic welling up in his throat, Steve checked Tony's vitals. No pulse. No breathing. He'd been down for about fifteen seconds, now.

Gently, mindful of his super-soldier strength, Steve tilted Tony's head back and pinched his nose. He bent down and breathed into Tony—not too hard, not too hard. He knew he could inflate a football to explosion if he tried hard enough, and Steve was mindful, _extra_ mindful, of Tony's all-too-human body lying beneath his hands right this moment.

One hundred beats per minute. That's what they taught you. Steve carefully started compressions, so, so careful of cracked ribs, of pressing down too hard and putting his hand through Tony's chest, of accidentally shoving the RT through Tony's chest. He was panicked, he was scared, he had adrenaline coursing through every capillary, feeling like it was soaking out of his pores, but he had to stay in control. A loss of control meant not bringing Tony back. A loss of control meant Tony would die.

Thirty compressions. Then Steve moved back to Tony's mouth, pinching his nose shut. One breath. Then two. Back to chest compressions.

Steve wasn't functioning under the illusion that this would bring Tony back. He needed a scientist for that—someone like... like Reed or Pym or McCoy. But he needed to keep the blood oxygenated and circling through Tony's veins as much as possible. This was something he could do. Rebooting the RT wasn't.

But then, just like that, Tony bolted upright, gasping for air. Steve fell back, blinking grit and smoke from his eyes as he watched the armor wrap itself back around a still-gasping Tony, then sink into his skin. Tony shook himself once, twice. Then he jumped up, looked around, and let out a sharp “Whoop!”

Steve jumped up with Tony, gaping. Tony was spinning around and laughing, pointing at the downed armors. Stark Resilient headquarters was still intact, down the road. Tony pointed at it, then at Steve, then spread his arms wide at the carnage around him. He hollered for joy again.

“Did you _see that_?!” Tony shouted. He punched the air, then collapsed into a little victory dance. “Take _that_. Oh, you think it's a good idea to hook up your armors to a neural network so you can take advantage of nanbot-esque swarm physics except on a macro scale? Oh, there couldn't possibly be a way for anyone to exploit that since they absorb the remaining energy of their downed companions? _What_?! You didn't think _Tony Fucking Stark_ could stop you?!”

Tony danced over to Steve laughing and hollering and just generally making a fool of himself.

Steve socked Tony right in the jaw.

Tony didn't even put up a fight. He just let his head fall to the side, blinking as one hand come up to gingerly touch at his cheek. “Steve?”

Darn it all. Tony's voice sounded so _hurt_ , so confused. All his jubilation was gone in an instant, replaced by cautious confusion. Like a kicked pup. Steve's heart clenched painfully in his chest. Tony was wrong, and Tony was being a pigheaded jerk, but he didn't realize it. Sure, it was no excuse, but...

Gently, Steve put his hand on Tony's shoulder, moving slowly to convey his peaceful intentions. Tony didn't even flinch, just looked up at him, one hand still on his bruised jaw, eyes searching.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled. He brought one gloved hand up to Tony's, covering it and the already-swelling skin. Like that could fix it. With a little huff Steve let his head fall forwards, against Tony's. Their foreheads knocked together, and Steve just stood there, breathing Tony's air, for as long as he could.

“Scared you, huh?”

Steve rolled his forehead against Tony's. His eyes had fluttered closed at some point, though he couldn't remember when.

“You're a piece of work, Iron Man. Do you know that?”

“I get that a lot,” Tony chuckled.

“ _Don't_.” Steve commanded. Just... He couldn't finish the sentence. He just. Tony: _Don't_. That was all Steve could think. That was all he could say.

Apparently it was enough, because Tony nodded his head gently against Steve's. “Alright,” he said. His hand came up and grabbed at Steve's neck. “Alright.”

“Steve.” There was no mistaking Bucky's voice.

Reluctantly Steve pulled away from Tony, though not without checking him over once more with eyes and hands. Tony simply smirked and shoved him away. Steve let his fingers graze the already-forming bruise on Tony's cheek. The other man just shook his head and kept smirking. _It's nothing. It's fine_ , his eyes said. Steve still felt a curl of guilt in his stomach over the act, though it was still very nearly outweighed by the fear and panic he had felt seeing Tony be so reckless with his own life.

“Captain,” Steve greeted Bucky.

Natasha was there in the background, Steve noticed. Poking at the armors and having a word with Clint, as he dropped down from whatever perch he had found.

Bucky glanced over Steve's shoulder at Tony. Steve followed the gaze, a touch self-consciously. Tony was rubbing at his jaw and moving it around, popping the joints. Steve grimaced. He hadn't meant to. Adrenaline surge and crash and too much worry all at once. Too close a call.

Bucky leaned in close. “Is this an issue?” he murmured.

Steve blinked. Looked back at Tony, who flashed him a grin and a thumb's up, then back at Bucky. “Is _what_ an issue?”

“You two,” Bucky replied, like that was everything that needed to be said.

“He disobeyed my orders-”

“You're not in charge.”

“He _killed himself_ -”

“He was in a better position than any of us to know what could and needed to be done.”

Steve clicked his mouth shut. He wasn't going to win this argument. Instead, he nodded, tight-jawed, at Bucky. “It won't be a problem,” he promised. He just wasn't exactly sure _what_ he was promising. He couldn't promise not to be worried about Tony, and he wouldn't classify what just happened as an overreaction on his part. He could promise to follow the chain of command, but the fact of the matter was that he outranked _everybody_ on the ground: Bucky, Carol, Tony, even Maria Hill.

He could promise to trust Tony when it came to tech, when it came to armors—but he could never trust Tony when it came to self-preservation, when Tony came down to Tony. Steve trusted Tony with his own life, with the life of his teammates, but never with Tony's. He couldn't promise to trust in that.

Bucky clasped him on the shoulder and walked away. Steve sighed and turned back to Tony. He couldn't help wanting to check up on him, still. What he _really_ wanted to do was order Tony to a hospital, to get himself checked out. But Tony would just hand wave some answer about the RT and Extremis and then insult the healthcare system in the US. So Steve just went over to Tony and ran a hand over his jaw again, then slid his hands down and started feeling Tony up for any more injuries.

Tony stood there patiently and rolled his eyes. “Copping a feel?”

“Whatever explanation it takes to make you sit through this,” Steve replied calmly.

Tony made a pleased little humming noise, which Steve ignored. Carefully he checked over Tony's ribs, arms, legs. He even lifted Tony's chin up and tugged at his eyelids. He waved a hand over Tony's eyes, and Tony, surprisingly, stared straight ahead and let Steve check him for concussion.

When Steve let go of him again Tony just grinned and rubbed at his cheek. “Really, the worst of it is from you.”

“Really?” Steve snapped. “Stopping your heart? Not breathing? That wasn't as bad as a punch to the jaw?”

Tony shrugged easily, grin brilliant in the fresh light of the street. Steve blinked, realizing it was dawn already. He hadn't even realized.

“Well, you do pack one hell of a punch,” Tony pointed out.

“You guys are worse than Hank and Jan,” a voice behind them chortled. Steve turned, realizing before he even laid eyes on him that it was Clint. The archer smirked at them, blonde hair a dirty, sweaty mess from the battle, treasured bow wrapped up safely in his hands.

Steve frowned. “That's not funny,” he scolded. Domestic violence was _never_ funny.

And Steve was still feeling a sick coil of guilt in his stomach, over hurting Tony so soon after he had been hurt, so soon after Tony had hurt himself. Tony may be chipper now, but it was probably just the adrenaline rush. He'd crash, and then he'd be tormented by what he did. Steve didn't need Tony to think he _deserved_ it, deserved the pain. Because that was just the sort of thing Tony might think.

Clint rolled his eyes and jerked his head at Tony. “You know what I'm talking about.”

Tony blinked at Clint. His hair was wild and messy: sticking straight up in some places and matted down in others. “What are you yapping about, bird-brain?”

Clint glowered at Tony for a minute. “You and Steve. Don't tell me that was your first kiss.”

Tony's eyes went wide, and Steve felt like the world was dropping out from under him all over again. He lurched forward, one hand out. “CPR,” he said, almost shouted. “I performed CPR on you.”

“You know they updated the manual. No more kissing.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

Clint twirled an arrow between his fingers. “Aw, come on, you have to have known that. You're Mr. Rules-and-Regulations. It's just chest compressions now, no mouth-to-mouth. Sure makes it seem like you were just getting your mack on.”

Tony's expression was nervous. Like he was about to bolt. Steve wanted to fix this, thought he _should_ fix this, but had no idea where to start or what was even broken. And he hadn't known about the update to the CPR guidelines! He had probably been dead when they changed them.

“Tony,” Steve murmured. Tony's eyes went to his, and Steve smiled cautiously. “Clint?” he called over his shoulder, not breaking eye contact with Tony. “Why don't you practice not being a dick?”

It was mean, a little bit _too_ mean, but it coaxed a smile from Tony. And then a step forward: Tony walked over to Steve and punched him in the shoulder. Steve laughed and ruffled lightly at Tony's hair, wrapping an arm around him. He pressed his lips to Tony's ear. “Don't do that again,” he murmured.

Tony shivered against him, then shrugged his shoulders heavily. “Yeah, yeah. It worked, didn't it? Pretty genius of me, if I do say so myself.”

“Try to be a genius _without_ dying next time, okay?” Steve pleaded.

Tony turned under Steve's heavy arm, glanced up into his eyes. He smirked, though it was softer than it normally might be. “Well,” he sighed. “Since it's _you_ asking.”

In the background, Clint stormed off, muttering something about Kate and getting a pizza and people who _appreciated_ him. Steve ignored him in favor of holding onto Tony tight. Maybe he'd even manage to convince Tony to skip out on the cleanup in favor of getting some rest. His bedroom was only two blocks away, after all.

 


	9. Chapter 8

 

Tony was concentrating. He was concentrating very, very hard. On technology. He was concentrating very hard on the series of clear electrodes just beneath the surface of the glass screen of a certain TV directly in front of him. He could feel the electrodes, feel the electrical signals they gave off and the patterns that he made. If he closed his eyes he could _see_ the image on the screen, just by feeling the electrical signals, the little jarring on and offs, each just the width of a pixel. It was like reading braille with the extrasensory perception that Extremis gave him. And right now he was trying to change something, trying to adjust something so very, very minute. He had to manipulate them in _just_ the right way...

“Tony, stop adding mustaches to all the players.”

Tony let his concentration falter and the TV image flicker back to normal. He sighed. That had been _difficult_. Steve could at least show a little _appreciation_ for his abilities.

When he suggested as much to Steve, he was acknowledged with a poke to his ribs and flick of condensation at his face. Tony spluttered and fell away from Steve. The bastard was _laughing_ at him, even as his gaze was fixed forward on the game. Tony pouted.

Sighing mightily, Tony pulled out his phone and started fiddling with it. Then he got bored and put it away. Then he got bored and pulled it out again and fiddled with it some more. Thirty seconds later and he tossed it on the coffee table, sighing. So maybe he hadn't thought through his offer to spend some time with Steve and help take his mind off the whole Zola thing.

After his little field trip with Bucky and Natasha—and after a tiny little skirmish that maybe took a couple days for Steve to get _over_ , seriously, he was barely dead, Tony didn't know what the _big deal_ was—Steve had excitedly shared all the information he had gained with Tony. They had poured over the scans of the files together, Tony offering his expert opinion where he could.

But now it was two weeks after that, and the trail had gone cold again. Steve was starting to stew too long—even Tony, absorbed in ripping apart and reverse engineering the army of new armors he had to play with, had managed to notice Steve's unease. Tony, in his continuing attempt to be the dumbest genius on the planet, had offered to help take Steve's mind off his worries, with a wink and a leer.

He hadn't expected Steve to take him up on his offer. And he _really_ hadn't expected Steve to force him to sit through a Brooklyn Dodger's game with him (Tony acquired the team for Steve and moved them back to Brooklyn—and the Mets out of Queens to take the Dodger's place in LA—as a misguided attempt to buy him happiness some years ago. Long story. Don't worry about it).

It was the second inning and Tony was _bored_.

Grumbling, Tony toed off his sneakers, then his socks. He dropped his feet on the coffee table, just to see what Steve's reaction might be. He waited a beat. Waited. Watched Steve watch the game. … Nothing.

Tony sighed heavily. Curled his toes around the edge of the coffee table thirty times in one minute. This couch was uncomfortable. Or maybe it was just Tony. When was the last time he had _sat_ on a couch, and not laid down to catch a quick catnap while working in the lab? Maybe that was his problem: he was uncomfortable. Grumbling to himself, Tony scooted his body around on the couch, until his feet were shoved partially between the couch and Steve's ass, and Tony was lying sideways to watch the TV.

Nope. Horrible. Whining, Tony shifted again, rolling onto his stomach. He lifted his feet from under Steve's ass to on top of his lap. Tony lolled on the couch, one arm dangling off the side. A man on the TV stared at another man for a long stretch of time... then stepped away from the plate and took a half-dozen more practice swings. He adjusted his gloves. Stomped his feet. Stepped back up to the plate-

“ _Steve_ ,” Tony whined.

“Do I need to point out that you invited yourself over?”

Tony rolled so he was facing the back of the couch. Then he rolled again so he was lying on his back. Then he rolled again, on the other axis, twisting his body around on the couch until his head was in Steve's lap and his feet were dangling over the edge. Snuffling loudly, Tony nuzzled his face into Steve's stomach. He laughed when Steve's stomach twitched, then laughed harder when Steve heaved a sigh and shoved at his forehead.

“Stop it,” Steve grumbled.

But now Tony had his favorite thing: _information_. Not only that: _new_ information. Apparently Captain America was ticklish.

Squirming in his place on the couch, Tony reached up a hand and tugged at Steve's shirt, pulling it up until fingers met skin. Steve's stomach twitched again. Gently Tony rubbed a finger up the line of Steve's abs: first one side, then the other, then up the middle. When Steve failed to respond more than a few carefully-stifled muscle twitches, Tony tried something else. Gently he trailed a finger _down_ the center of Steve's stomach, fingers smoothing their way through the soft tangle of blonde hair that increased in density the lower he went.

Just above the waistband of his sweatpants, a hand snapped out and grabbed at Tony's wrist. Tony grinned up at Steve, happy to see that through all the glaring and stern looks, there was amusement in Steve's eyes. “What?” Tony asked, faux-innocent.

Steve cocked his head, expression likewise innocent.

Oh no. Tony's eyes widened. Oh no. Steve was playing _innocent._

Before he could scramble away Steve had him, arms wrapped tight around Tony and lifting him up. Tony couldn't even try to escape from Steve's strong arms, so he went limp, hoping Steve would be startled into dropping him.

Of course he wasn't. Expert strategist and all. The jerk.

Tony found himself pinned on his back on the couch. Then his shirt started getting tugged up and Tony's eyes went wide. He started scrambling against Steve's grip now, trying to kick and squirm and hit with the flat of his palms. But Steve had him pinned too well: his thighs clenched tight over Tony's, one big hand wrapped tight around Tony's wrists. The other hand tugged as his shirt, pulling it up to expose his stomach. Tony struggled some more.

Then Steve flashed a grin at him and bent his head down. Tony gasped, hips bucking. “Steve, Steve: what. What are you doing. Steve.” His eyes were wide, his heart racing. Steve's mouth was lower, it was... Tony felt a surge of lust, a shock of electricity headed straight for his groin. No, no, what was Steve-

And then Steve blew a raspberry on Tony's stomach.

Tony howled with laughter, hips jerking up as Steve's lips moved against his skin, wet hair and tickling vibrations of his lips moving over Tony's stomach. Tony squirmed harder, trying to escape Steve's questing lips. But Steve was brutally insistent, impossibly focused, as he dove in again and again, blowing raspberry after raspberry on Tony's stomach.

Face red and tears tracking down his cheeks, Tony bucked harder. Finally Tony managed to squirm out from under Steve, though that ended up with him falling onto his ass on Steve's floor. Steve peered down from his perch on the couch at Tony, face almost equally as red as Tony was sure his was, eyes shining with mirth.

“Give?” he asked.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. He held a hand up at Steve, waggling it until he helped haul Tony back up onto the couch. Tony leaned hard against Steve as he caught his breath.

“Now will you let me watch the game?”

Tony grumbled and shoved his shoulder against Steve's. “Shut up and pass me another ginger ale.”

Steve smiled and leaned forward, grabbing Tony a ginger ale from the table. He even cracked it open for Tony before passing it over. Then he patted down Tony's hair sarcastically until Tony shoved him away and focused on his drink. Stupid super-soldier serum. He could beat him in the suit. He just didn't want to be accused of cheating.

They sat in silence for almost a whole inning—points to Tony for that, because seriously, that required some exceptional patience with this dumb sport—until Steve spoke.

“Hey, I never... I never really thought about it, but. Are you okay with this?”

Tony froze, glanced over at Steve. “What?” Was he asking about gay chicken again? He thought he had made that _clear_ , the last half-dozen times they had hung out together. Was Steve trying to broach the issue because he was... Because he _wasn't_ okay with it any more? Was Carol being interfering again? Maybe it was Clint, and his stupid fucking “Hank and Jan” comment at the battle last week.

Or maybe it was something Tony had done, like overloading his system just a _teensy_ bit at that last battle. Maybe Steve couldn't take it any more, being so close to him. Tony would understand. He couldn't stand to spend as much time around him as Steve did. The only reason they could even be friends was because Steve was so much better than he was, so much more patient. But everyone's patience ran out eventually: even Steve's.

But Steve's tone was much more casual than that—and none of that forced-casualness that would be a tip-off to trouble.

“Watching sports, drinking beverages.” Steve gestured around them. He glanced warily at Tony. “It's not a... uh, I'm not sure what it's called. What I mean is, it doesn't make you want to drink, does it? Because we can do something else-”

Tony laughed with relief. Oh. _Oh_. That was... That was so much easier to answer.

Tony shook his head, still smiling easily.

“Not a trigger for me, no. This isn't something I did when I drank, so I don't have the expectation of drinking.”

Steve nodded, considering this. “Oh. That's good then.” He smiled.

Tony waggled his ginger ale can at Steve. “But don't think that means you can invite me over for more this. I'm just here to help you relax. I couldn't give less of a shit about baseball.”

Steve just smiled and kept watching the TV.

Tony fiddled with the controls of the TV for a minute, minutely adjusting color and tint and contrast to see if Steve noticed. If he did, he gave no sign of it. Then again, Steve might have decided to treat Tony like a particularly bratty child and ignore him until he grew bored.

Tony refused to acknowledge how easily that strategy seemed to work on him.

“Worst was business meetings,” he offered out of the blue.

That made Steve glance at him, at least. “Oh?”

Now that the subject was broached, Tony actually wasn't sure if he wanted to talk about it. But whatever, not a big deal. Not if he didn't let it be. “For drinking. I was always drunk at board meetings.” He paused, fiddling with the TV again. He upped the pink content by a half of a fraction of a percent. Rose-tinted glasses, heh. Probably how Steve saw things anyway.

“Actually, sex was the worst,” he said.

Steve frowned, his attention fully on Tony now. He was... listening. Just listening. Tony sighed, scrubbed a hand through his hair. Unsubtly he moved away from Steve on the couch.

“I couldn't, for a while. After a quit,” he admitted.

“Is that common?”

“Yeah.” Tony nodded. “Yeah. Not all the time, not everyone. But, yeah. I just... The only time I had gotten an erection in _years_ was with a fifth of scotch in my system. Eventually my body started to confuse cause and effect, which I got to find out when I quit. Took a while to...” Tony laughed. “To re-learn it. And it's still—forgive the pun—'hard' to have sex without wanting alcohol before or after.” Tony smiled up at Steve, nudged him in the arm. “Lucky I fall asleep right after.”

Steve grimaced, nose wrinkling up just a little. Tony's eyes crinkled up with delight at the sight. “You can stop there,” Steve pointed out.

Tony sighed and relaxed into Steve's couch, swirling the ginger ale in its can. He gazed down into the little open tab, catching only glimpses of the sparkling liquid within. It was almost enough to make him crave scotch, but not enough. Sitting here, relaxing with Steve: that wasn't something he had needed alcohol for in the past, and so it wasn't something he expected alcohol for now.

The players were switching sides, or whatever they called it in baseball. Tony sighed and slumped against Steve, smashing his cheek into Steve's arm. What a terrible sport.

“Hey.” Tony nudged his face harder against Steve's arm. Steve, probably because the TV was airing commercials right that moment, actually glanced down at Tony, indulging him. “How's the Zola-hunt going?”

Oh, damn. Steve's face immediately tightened up, all the easy casualness gone from his form. Tony wanted to... to do something, to make him relax. Pet him like an oversized dog or something, though that maybe wouldn't work out so well. Earn him points at their little game, but then again he should probably try employing some of that tact he had heard so much talk of and wait for a slightly more appropriate time.

“No.” Steve's hand drifted down his thigh, like he was searching for something. After a moment's consideration, and a long moment of personal hesitation, Tony reached out and took it. Immediately Steve relaxed, just a little bit. The man was so tactile, and yet kept himself so careful controlled, so cut off from everyone all the time. It was the least Tony could do: give him that bit of contact he craved so consistently, so quietly.

Steve squeezed Tony's hand as he looked down at him. “I appreciate your help,” he replied. “Analyzing all that data, looking over the files for me. You didn't have to, and-”

Straightening from where he was crumpled against Steve's side, Tony smiled and flapped his free hand casually. “It's nothing.”

“It's _not_ nothing.” Steve punctuated his words with a squeeze. “And I appreciate it.”

Tony sighed. He was comfortable with all this complimenting. Even if he did completely deserve it. “Too bad I can't do more,” he pointed out. Because there really hadn't been much he _had_ done for Steve. Looked over the files, confirmed that the data could point to Steve's theory about Zola needing different expertise to build himself a new body, but then hedging his answer by—horror of horrors—saying _Bucky_ might be just as right.

“Hey!” Okay, _now_ was the appropriate time to try and tease Steve again. Definitely. It would just be as a way to cheer Steve up. So not only was it far enough removed from an _inappropriate_ time, it was Tony actually being _helpful_. By being a dick.

Honestly, when Tony tried to justify these things to himself he stopped making sense, so it would probably be for the best if he stopped trying to justify them. And just go with his impulses. Not like _that_ had ever gotten him in trouble.

“Let me pose for you.”

Steve blinked down at him, then unsubtly pulled away. “What...” the little furrow appeared between Steve's brows. Tony grinned. “You mean as a model? For... a painting?”

Tony shrugged. “Painting, sketch, the rocks-”

“-charcoal.”

“- _rocks_ you like to draw with, whatever.” In the sexiest, most fluid manner he could manage, Tony stood from the couch and attempted to strike a pose in front of Steve: one hand on his waist, hip jutting out, chin up and looking heroically off into the vague distance. Then, Tony decided to take it further. Because enough was never enough and further wasn't far enough. Not for him, not ever.

“I'll pose for you, nude.”

“What?”

Tony grinned down at Steve, casually trailing a hand down his shirt-clad chest. His stomach jumped at the thought of Steve tackling him just a few moments ago, Steve rucking up that same shirt, touching that same skin with his lips. Yeah, he could totally embarrass Steve with this little plan. He just had to get Steve to agree to it, which was why his stomach felt full of nervous nanobots.

“What do you artists call it?” Tony asked, mock-pondering. “Model? I'll model for you.”

“What's the catch?”

Steve was eyeing Tony suspiciously now. Shit. He wouldn't exactly be able to tease Steve with his nudity, to come onto him when naked and get Steve to call uncle on their little game, if Steve wouldn't agree to it in the first place. Tony needed to talk, to talk well and fast and be his absolute most charming.

Tony jerked a finger at the sketches and paintings in Steve's home off, visible through the open door off the side of the living room. “It's what you artists do, right? Practice drawing the human form. And hey:” Tony gestured at himself. “Best human model you could get, right? Perfect male specimen.” Tony punctuated the statement with a leer.

The best way, he figured, to convince Steve to agree to this was to be direct, but make Steve _think_ he was being indirect. Flirt with Steve, pretend that was his intention, but let Steve think that Tony was avoiding the bigger issue: trying to distract Steve from the whole Zola mess. Which, sure, that was part of it: Tony was distracting Steve from his worries by calling his attention back to their little game. But just because that was the _reason_ Tony was doing this didn't mean that he couldn't try to _win_ , too.

“Pretty sure I'm supposed to be the 'pinnacle of human perfection,'” Steve replied dryly.

That... Kind of hurt. Tony frowned down at himself. He had a little bit more pudge than Steve, maybe, but he was still pretty damn fit for a guy his age. So he didn't have arms the width of Luke Cage's or Spiderman's slender strength or Steve's... Steve. But he was still attractive. Still had a good body. All those models all those years ago-

But then again, it _had_ been a while since he really played the field. Maybe he was losing his touch.

Not that he took offense to the way Steve could so casually brush off his offer. And insult his looks. Steve was just trying to get the upper hand; Steve was being suspicious and conniving in the face of Tony's equally chicanerous tactics.

Still, his reply of “it was just an offer” came out much sharper than he meant it to.

Steve winced. A full-body, “I feel guilty now,” wince.

“Tony-” Steve made an abortive move to reach up to Tony from the couch. Tony pulled away sharply before he could.

“It was just a thought,” he snapped. Time to show his hand if he wanted to salvage this at all. “To take your mind off all this Zola nonsense.”

Ignoring the weird ache in his chest, the feeling like... like Steve was being _mean_ , even though he wasn't, even though Tony was a grown-ass man and could deal with his friend taking a jibe at his looks. Especially since he knew Steve didn't _mean it_. Ignoring that, ignoring all those stupid feelings, Tony threw himself into a fake huff and started stomping around the apartment, gathering up his phone and keys and whatever the hell else he had lying around.

“Never mind,” he announced loudly. “I understand. Got yourself for a model, right. Probably jerk off in front of a mirror—or wait, no, I've got it.” Tony spun around on a shocked-looking Steve, who had managed to scramble up from the couch just in time to get Tony's finger jabbed in his face. “It's the statue of liberty, isn't it? Star Spangled Banner playing in the background? If you're feeling really frisky you record the history channel episode of the founding fathers reading the Declaration of Independence? Maybe some CSPAN thrown into the mix, change of pace?”

“Tony-”

Tony poked his finger firmly into Steve's chest, shoving him even though he didn't move even an inch. “Forget it, Rogers,” he grumbled. Then he spun away and started for the door. “Forget I offered! Just trying to do _you_ a favor-”

“ _Tony_.” Steve's voice was firm. Enough so that Tony glanced back, almost against his will. Kind, serious eyes met his: and oh. Oh, uh. Fuck. Tony hadn't been prepared for _that_.

With deliberate movements Steve stepped across the living room to Tony. Pressed a hand to his shoulder. Looked him in the eye.

Tony swallowed nosily.

“I'd love that,” Steve said. There wasn't a trace of insincerity in his words.

A shiver went through Tony's body. His mouth was dry when he opened it. No witty retort was on his tongue.

Luckily, Steve had enough wit for the both of them, at the moment. With a gentle squeeze he released Tony's shoulder, then cautioned: “But you realize it's going to be even more boring than watching baseball?”

Tony snorted, and it was like his brain booted back up.

“Sorry to break it to you champ, but _nothing_ is more boring than baseball.”

Which is how Tony found himself being dragged back to the couch in a headlock, face trapped against Steve's muscle-bound chest and laughing until he cried.

* * *

Tony strode into his lab, half his mind occupied with Steve's Zola problem, half his mind toying with the beaten and broken armors that were starting to pile up in his lab. At this rate he'd have to start chucking them out with the Wednesday trash pickup, or expand his workspace to be large enough to hold them all. Though Tony had a feeling Pepper wouldn't take kindly to him storing old villain's armors in her office.

So distracted was Tony that he didn't even notice the package set neatly inside his office door. Not until his foot made contact with it, at least, and sent it skittering across the floor. Tony grumbled and went after it, grabbing it and reading the return address. He didn't remember ordering-

Oh. _Oh_ _._ Although he would deny it to his dying day, Tony stark felt a flush dust his cheeks. Oh. Right. He had forgotten about this impulse purchase made weeks ago, inspired by a certain late-night conversation with Steve.

Carefully Tony set the package under his desk, as if it would suddenly— _go off—_ if he bumped it too hard. He'd worry about that later. Tonight. After he was done working.

Tony definitely didn't finish up in his workshop at a reasonable time because he was looking forward to trying out the purchase that evening.

He found himself perched on his bed at ten o'clock that night, package torn open and batteries procured—bless Pepper for always keeping him in stock with normal energy sources. He probably could have gerry-rigged something with repulsor energy, but he seriously didn't want to explain _that_ injury if something went wrong. Tony stared at the little device sitting next to him. He felt like he should buy it a drink first, at least.

Nervously—except definitely not, he wasn't nervous—Tony smoothed at his red, three-thousand count Egyptian cotton sheets. He glanced at the... the _vibrator_... again, eyeing it up. It was a normal size, so said his research online: long enough to “stimulate the prostate”, but not _too_ long or thick. It was smaller than his dick, when his dick was erect.

But not by much. Tony eyed the toy again. Huh. Logically, he knew it would fit. Probably. He'd taken shits about that size before. At least, he thought he had. And if the gay guys could take it, so could he. Fuck, if _Steve_ could take it, then Tony wouldn't let himself end this evening without out-doing him in every way possible.

Okay, time to start. No more stalling. He'd seen enough videos on the internet. Fucked enough women— _including_ in the ass, so he figured he understood the basics, there. A vagina might be different from an ass, but an ass was an ass, right? Man or woman? So just... do himself like he did to women, and it should be alright. Better, even, if Starkpedia articles were anything to go by.

Tony settled himself on his bed and blinked on his television. He ran some quick porn searches, found two or three videos that looked promising, and opened them into different windows. Okay.

Briefly Tony pondered at the order he should do things. Should he start to jerk off like normal? Try to work himself up before going for the... new exploration? It wasn't like his asshole would grow wet like a woman's cunt did, so arousing himself wouldn't exactly serve that purpose. Then again, if he just went straight for his asshole, it probably wouldn't be that good. Like flicking a clit when a woman wasn't especially aroused yet. The clitoris wasn't a magic button, and he imagined the prostate wouldn't be, either.

Mission firmly in mind, Tony squeezed some lube into his hands and wrapped it around his flaccid penis. Okay. Porn. Porn was good. Beautiful woman with some fantastic tits being undressed by two muscle-bound guys. Great. They were licking her nipples, she was squeezing the obvious bulges in their way too-tight jeans. Hot, definitely hot. No reason to be nervous about what was to come: if Steve said he enjoyed it, it couldn't be all that bad. And the gays sure seemed to approve.

Easily enough Tony stroked himself to full hardness, watching the beautiful actors suck and lick their way to sweaty bliss. At one point the guys started getting a little too interested in each other, and Tony shut that window down and switched his focus to another one. Two women and a man, this time. Much better. He wasn't sure why exactly he was on a threesome kick this evening, but hey: not nearly as strange as what he was about to try.

Speaking of which... Okay. Tony glanced down at his penis, flushed and red, curled up toward his stomach. Briefly he wondered if Steve was a straight-out sort of erection guy or a up-and-at-'em type. Then Tony shook his head at the visual, snorting to himself. Beautiful women were eating each other out on his TV and he was wondering how his erection compared to Captain America's. Stupid.

Tony took a breath, stroked himself a few times. His hips moved gently in time with his hand, fucking his fist with soft, easy movements. Okay. Yeah. A curl of excitement settled low in his stomach. This might be fun. Okay.

Reaching for the lube again, Tony squeezed some more into his hand. Briefly he contemplated his hands, wondering which one should move south and which he should keep on his dick. After a moment he transferred the task of stroking his penis to his left hand and started trailing his right down below his balls. If he was going to try something new, probably a good idea to use his dominant hand.

Rubbing his balls and just behind them felt nice. Good. He'd done as much before, it wasn't especially new. Moving back just a few centimeters and rubbing his perineum felt surprisingly good. Not a sudden shock of arousal or a lightning bolt of amazing sexiness from above, but better than rubbing any random patch of skin. Tony indulged himself for a moment, rubbing firmly at the area. His hips canted upwards at the pressure, more so than when he was jerking off. Tony hummed to himself as he let his fingers drift back further, then aborted the movement to rub at his perineum again. His asshole was clenching slightly, like it knew what to expect. Like it might be interested.

Grunting to himself, Tony paused in his ministrations. His asshole was both further back than he realized and closer. Further back because his wrist was starting to hurt from contorting backwards, and less so because he was already _there_ , he could feel the little ring of muscle under his fingerpads with every “accidental” swipe back that far.

The first problem could be solved with a pillow under his lower back, which Tony did. Comfortably repositioned, Tony took a breath. The second problem could only be solved by his own daring. Well. He wasn't about to back down from a challenge. Especially one that _Steve_ had already met and conquered. After taking a moment to dribble even more lube onto his hand, Tony took the plunge... and wriggled his index finger into his ass.

Tony actually blinked as he moved his finger slowly in and out of his asshole. Huh. That wasn't so bad. Didn't even hurt. Felt a little weird, but not even that much. It was soothing, in a way. Like getting a massage. Curious, Tony tried shoving another finger alongside the first. Okay, _that_ was a little more intense. More closely approaching that sore-stretch feeling he was expecting. But not even that bad. Tony tried pumping the two fingers in and out, making a little surprised nose when it wasn't bad. Burying his fingers as far as they could go inside of him, Tony tried wriggling them, stroking his inside walls. Oh, yeah. That actually felt pretty good.

Belatedly Tony realized he had stopped stroking his dick. He corrected that, grabbing on and stroking himself. He didn't think too hard on the fact that he hadn't started to go limp. In fact, a fresh dribble of precome leaked from the head of his penis as he started up again. A gasp from fell his lips as he moved back hands, inside and out. Oh, hey. Not bad. Maybe with just a little coordination... Tony tried pumping his fingers into himself in time with the smooth slide of his hand over his cock. Arousal hit him like a punch in the gut. A moan escaped him, hips moving fluidly forward, and _back_. Yeah. Fuck. That felt pretty good. A whole other area of stimulation.

Speaking of stimulation... Tony removed the slick fingers from his asshole. Moving slowly, almost as if he was trying to avoid spooking himself out of doing this, Tony reached over with his left hand and wrapped it around the vibrator. Okay. Okay. He coated the hard plastic with lube, practically tipping half the bottle out onto it. Briefly he considered if he should turn it on or leave it off at first. Reaching down between his legs, Tony rubbed the vibrator against his asshole: not pushing it in, just massaging the sensitive skin. That decided it for him.

With a flick of his thumb he turned the device on. Immediately he jumped, his stomach muscles contracting with a shot of pleasure. Oh, _fuck_. That felt good. Eyes closed, head thrown back onto his three thousand count Egyptian cotton sheets, Tony rubbed the outside of his asshole with the vibrator, trailing it up and down, perineum, balls, and back down again. It was like... It was like a woman humming while giving him a blowjob, except... fuck, _fuck_. Mouth hanging open, Tony let the vibrator trail back down to his asshole, then slip inside.

The vibrations felt like they intensified, trapped within his tight heat, shaking him apart from the inside out. Tony's stomach jumped again, his cock twitching and leaking a heavy stream of precome, as he twisted the vibrator around inside of him. He grabbed hold of the base of his cock with his free hand, groaning at the sensation. He definitely wasn't going to need to continue jerking himself off. Not at this rate. At this rate, it'd be a miracle if he actually got the vibrator all the way inside. As it was, it was only the tip. Maybe an inch of it inside of him. Tony groaned as he let the vibrator slip further inside. Fuck.

Even with how good it felt, Tony was pretty sure he hadn't hit his prostate yet. That had to change. If the redness of Steve's face when he was telling his little story was any indicator, this could get even better with a more skilled hand at the wheel. But since the only hands Tony had were his own, he was going to have to manage it himself.

With definite reluctance Tony pulled the vibrator out of himself and turned himself over onto his stomach, then lifted himself onto his hands and knees. The vibrator was still on, clutched tightly in his right hand, rubbing lube and making a mess of his sheets. Grumbling, Tony lowered himself down onto his elbows so he could reapply lube to the vibrator without having it immediately wiped off by the sheets.

Carefully Tony levered himself back up onto his left hand while reaching back with his right, vibrator slick and moving in his fingers. He pressed it inside, trying for the kind of angle he imagined gay guys went for. It slid in, the little plastic wand, massaging his inner walls with an intensity that left him gasping, face pressed into the mattress. Not quite right, though it felt good. Panting, Tony slid the vibrator in and out, fucking his asshole gently. His hips were canting backwards to meet his wrist, and he angled it up a little more, sliding the vibrator more down inside of him. It slid in an extra inch, though it felt like more, and...

Tony shouted, body trembling beneath his own ministrations. Shit shit... that was definitely it. Whatever angle he had, however his hand was moving in side of him... Tony sped up the pace of his thrusts, sliding the little toy rapidly in and out, rubbing that vibrating beauty against his inside walls. He was pressing hard, he knew: probably too hard for his first time. But fuck it: it felt too good to care. His cock leaked precome, drops of the viscous liquid dribbling down his shift, dripping down onto the sheets. Tony moaned, rubbing his cheek against the sheets, mouth open and drooling like a cheap whore.

His fist met the flesh of his ass with rapid smacks as he buried the toy inside himself over and over again. Pleasure spiked in Tony, reaching an intolerable crescendo. His left hand clenched spasmodically on the sheets, torn between the urge to touch himself and ride it out, experience this without... without...

Tony came with a cry, eyes squeezed shut as he spilled himself onto the sheets. His asshole clenched hard around the toy, pressing it tight inside of him, amplifying the vibrations to send extra shockwaves of pleasure through his orgasm, spikes of almost painful bliss punctuating the high. His body shivered, his legs shaking and wobbling on the mattress, his arms trembling. His cock twitched again, another spurt of cum to clean off the sheets, another piece of evidence of his body's lust for this new act. A last soft moan escaped his lips as he fell to the mattress, body overstimulated and satiated all at once.

The dull roar of blood rushing in his ears died down, slowly, slowly. Has he came back to himself Tony blinked and took stock of his surroundings. Ah, fuck: the vibrator was still moving in his ass, overstimulating him painfully. Quickly Tony reached back and removed the toy, flicking it off and tossing it somewhere away from him on the bed. His ass was sore, tender and aching. It felt empty, too: stretched open, clenching and relaxing as it sought for something inside of it. Hopefully the supervillains could lay off for a day or two, or he'd have to do some interesting explaining to the Avengers as to the nature of his “injuries”.

High-pitched moans and gasps drew Tony's attention to his TV. He had forgotten all about the pornography. Lazily he reached out with his mind, shutting it off. A second before he did his attention flicked over to one of the screens he had opened. It was two men, no women in sight. One of the men—the one getting his ass roundly pounded—was a slighter brunette, while the ass-pounder himself was a beefy blonde. Tony frowned and ran through the search engine, trying to figure out how it had come up. _Getting fucked... male brunette_... Oh, there it was. In the throes of passion, Tony had managed to run a search looking for porn where a brunette guy was getting fucked, but hadn't specified the gender of the person fucking him. Right. Big mistake there. With a snort and a lazy blink, the TV shut off. Definitely something to keep in mind next time he was looking for some porn.

Tony fell asleep on top of the covers, sticky and sated. He woke up three hours later, when he rolled over onto the vibrator and accidentally turned it on.

* * *

“So what are you doing?”

“Getting the charcoal ready.”

“How?”

“Sharpening the tips, organizing my supplies.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Getting a feel for the paper.”

“Why?”

“Tony: breathe.”

Steve flicked his gaze up from his supplies just in time to see Tony huff irritably in front of him. He was still wearing a robe—a red-and-gold silk robe, because of course it was—but he was naked beneath it, and obviously not coping with that fact well. Steve suppressed a grin. Tony might have suggested this to try and make _Steve_ uncomfortable, but it looked like it was already backfiring on him.

Steve himself was surprisingly relaxed. At ease. He knew Tony and was comfortable with Tony, and he knew sketching and was comfortable with nude models. Once Tony disrobed he wouldn't be looking at him as a friend, or a sexual partner (not that he ever did, even if Tony... might not understand that as well): Steve would be tracing every contour of Tony's body with the eyes of an artist. Cataloguing the musculature under the skin, invisible but present; studying the varying pools of darkness and light as they played over Tony's body; identifying every cluster of hair and the direction it grew, the thinnest grasslands to the thickest forests.

Steve studied Tony quietly for a moment. Even with the robe on, Steve's memory from various superheroic escapades could supply the rest of what he couldn't see just the moment. Tony was rubbing the back of his neck, glaring grouchily at Steve from across the room.

Clearing his throat, Steve smiled softly and nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Go ahead.”

Caught somewhere between grumbling to himself, trying to act casual, and clumsily seducing Steve, Tony moved to disrobe. He jerked at the tie around his waist before his eyes flickered up to Steve's, almost guiltily. Steve himself felt a matching flash of guilt over what he was letting Tony do. More and more it seemed like this _mattered_ to Tony, like this game might not be so much a game to him. With the way he was spending more time at Steve's apartment, giving over his incredibly valuable workshop time to work on Steve's problem, even though Tony had problems of his own to analyze and try to develop a strategy for dealing with. He was constantly getting himself closer to Steve, moving into Steve's space, inserting himself more and more firmly into Steve's life. Even more so than before... before. Before everything had gone to hell, and then come back again.

But Steve still wasn't sure how to handle Tony's feelings—if they were as intimate, as wanting, as Steve suspected they might be. So he kept Tony close: fed him the gentle touches he seemed to crave, gave him the attention that he was always begging for. Indulged him in his game, even when Steve knew he'd have the upper-hand. Because now it was less about beating Tony at his own stupidity and more about... compassion? Help? Brotherly love? Steve wasn't even sure himself. But he had _some_ sort of obligation to Tony, to his friend. He couldn't push him away—not now. Not after everything.

Steve would put an end to it before it went to far. But until then, it couldn't hurt to grant Tony this bit of companionship, of affection. And it wasn't like it was a burden on Steve, spending time with Tony like this. He was one of Steve's closest friends. Even with all their history, Steve still loved Tony. Dearly.

Once Tony was fully unclothed before him, Steve took a step forward. Tony jerked back abruptly, hands clutching at the robe they still held and moving it in front of his more intimate areas. Steve smiled warmly, sweetly, and held out his hands. “I'm adjusting the light,” he explained. Then he moved slowly to the lamp next to Tony and began making his adjustments, stepping back every few seconds before trying a different angle for the light source. Tony hefted a loud sigh and rolled his eyes, before dropping the robe altogether.

They were standing close, Steve realized. He could feel Tony's breath on his cheek every time he moved in to adjust the light. Steve paused, glancing over at Tony with both hands on the lamp. Tony was gazing back at him. Tony licked his lips.

Steve jerked back while trying to seem like he wasn't jerking back. He kept smiling, trying to keep the mood easy, light, friendly.

“Just think about all the other times you've ended up in this state around me over the years,” Steve pointed out.

Tony snorted. “When-”

Steve raised his eyebrows pointedly as he settled himself back behind his easel.

“Okay except for that _one time_ when we were trying to help out Thor,” Tony acquiesced. “But I had been kidnapped by goblins! Elves. Somethings. Whatever. Definitely not my fault.”

The paper hummed under his hands as Steve smoothed it out. He looked at Tony, eyes trailing over every hill and valley, cataloguing the light and the dark. With the way he had angled the light source, combined with the cold glow of the RT, Tony was thrown in sharp relief. An equal mix of light and dark—how Tony presented himself to the world, though not the way Steve saw him.

“What about when I first found out you were Iron Man?” Steve asked. He picked up his thinnest charcoal pencil and started sketching out a rough outline. It wasn't even an outline, it was more like a proportion guide: finding how much space he wanted to take up on the canvas, how he wanted that space used. He still hadn't decided if he wanted to do a full-body sketch or a bust. Maybe he'd plan out both and see which spoke to him more, whispered stories about the man he was trying to capture.

Tony laughed. Steve smiled and glanced up from his paper. That was a good sound to hear. Tony's face was lit up, just for a second, by something other than the illumination provided by the lamp. Steve's guilt and worry eased at the sight.

“There was a red thong covering my shame, I might remind you.”

Steve snorted. “Not covering enough.” Glancing over at Tony's body again, Steve decided in that moment to do a full-body sketch. Wouldn't want to let his nudity go to waste, and it seemed there was something right about sketching Tony's body at this point in time. There was no scarring from malicious ex-girlfriends or mad supervillains. Tony's slate had been wiped clean, at least physically speaking, and Steve felt the need to capture that.

“I can't believe you remember that,” Tony said. Steve glanced up, sharply. Tony was smiling at him, eyes somewhat glazed as he took a stroll down memory lane.

Steve pressed a hand to the top of the easel, careful not to smudge any of his work so far. “I remember,” he said, quite seriously. Tony's eyes refocused on his, a curious little half-smile quirking at his lips.

“One of the best days of my life,” Steve admitted. He didn't meet Tony's eyes for that, but it was because he was too busy marking out proportion guides on his sheet of paper, determining exactly where Tony's knees and hips and chest and head would be. Steve's eyes flicked rapidly between Tony and the canvas as he worked, though with three minutes spent just looking at Tony, he could probably produce the entire drawing base on memory at this point. But looking somehow always managed to make it better, super-advanced memory or not. So Steve let himself keep looking.

Tony snorted, causing Steve to glance up more attentively. The sarcastic sneer on Tony's face made him frown. “Figured Bucky would be at the top.”

Steve shrugged easily and went back to his drawing. So they were on _that_ again. Some days Steve wasn't sure if Tony felt threatened by Bucky, jealous of him, or if the two men's personalities just didn't mesh well, closeness to Steve be damned. It didn't matter, since the men were able to work together when it counted. Bucky was Captain America now, after all, and that was largely thanks to Tony.

“I said 'one of,'” Steve pointed out calmly. “Bucky's in there, too. There's room for the both of you,” he teased, but not really.

His eyes flickered up and met Tony's. They shared a look for a long moment, an electric silence between them. In an effort to be the bigger man, Steve looked away first, back down at his work.

“And to answer the question I _expected_ you to ask,” Steve continued. “No: It wasn't one of my best days because I finally got to hold a naked Tony Stark in my arms.”

Tony spluttered at that, a gasping, surprised laugh. Steve allowed himself to smile as he reached for a thicker charcoal pencil, ready to start some of the heavier work, now. He liked to work his way from the outside in, from the broad boarders of a person's personality to the finer, more intimate details. He had an art teacher once who insisted that he should work the opposite direction, to let the fine details reach a kind of critical mass and then spill over and become the greater, broader strokes. Steve always liked it this way, better. It seemed neater: more organized. He wasn't sure if either way was better, just that he liked it this way.

“I guess now I've gotta listen to the reason?” Tony snarked.

Steve hummed, pulling a long, dark line down to form one muscle of Tony's calf. He moved up next, a fluid motion that was much a part of the last one as it was its own line, to draw a distinction between the other major calf muscle. After a quick glance up to check his reference, he moved onto the other leg. Then he switched to a thinner pencil to draw quick little marks where the ankles would form. Tony had such slender ankles and wrists for a man with as much broad musculature as he had. They were wrists and ankles that would look more at place on Spiderman than him. It didn't look odd on Tony, or weak: no, it was more... aristocratic. Elegant. Steve thought maybe it was telling that Tony chose to fight evil and change the world in a way that covered up those more delicate pieces of himself.

“Two of my best guys became one even better guy,” Steve explained simply.

When Tony didn't respond, Steve glanced up, worried he'd said something wrong. But Tony was smiling at him: one of his _quiet_ smiles, one of those rare ones. He actually looked like he might be getting a little misty-eyed at it all. Steve ducked his head back down behind the easel, hoping his cheeks weren't flushing too badly. He didn't mean to get this sappy with Tony. He was just. Stating the truth.

Blessedly, that seemed to shut Tony up for a few minutes at least, because Steve was able to work in silence, sketching out the broad strokes of Tony's being. Tony started shifting a little bit, and then a little more, but Steve didn't take too much notice of it. He was probably getting bored already. Steve would end up putting aside his charcoals and going for a drink and finding his refrigerator reconfigured into a teleportation device or something, Steve thought wryly. Tony's boredom knew no bounds, and Tony's boredom when coupled with the technological powers that Extremis gave him was a dangerous combination if Steve had ever seen one.

It wasn't until Tony coughed delicately—Steve was immersed in trying to get the light and darkness of Tony's collarbones just right, thanks to the fascinating relief the RT threw them into—that Steve realized his shifting was more than just boredom.

Steve averted his eyes from the—frankly impressive, considering the lack of stimulation—erection that Tony was sporting.

 _Freedom bless it_. It seemed this game was getting too intense for Tony, and there was unavoidable proof of it. Steve would have to put an end to this soon, for Tony's sake. He just had to find a way to do so that didn't hurt Tony's feelings. Steve glanced at Tony's erection again, then forced his eyes away. Unfortunately that was looking less and less like a possibility, with how long Steve had let this go on. He had no one but himself to blame, at this point.

“It's alright,” Steve reassured Tony. He forced himself back to his work, focusing on the firm planes of Tony's stomach. They were less defined than some of the other men they worked with, but not by any measurement soft. “It's natural.”

“Yeah, thanks, seventh grade health class. I'm aware of that.”

Steve didn't take Tony's sharp tone to heart. He knew the other man was embarrassed. Rather than strike back, Steve kept working, layering on thick swaths of charcoal before moving into the thinner, more defined lines.

“I thought you skipped seventh grade,” Steve replied calmly.

“It was a metaphor.”

“Skipped literature classes too, I suppose?” Steve teased.

A huffing sigh. Steve risked a glance up at Tony's face, grinning when he saw it was reluctantly smiling, even though his eyes were trained on the ceiling and his body language was still horribly self-conscious.

“Happens all the time,” Steve continued, trying to keep his voice even and soothing. Nonjudgemental. Even though, actually, it _didn't_ happen that often. Sure, it wasn't _unheard_ of, but... Steve glanced at Tony's erection again. It wasn't half-hard: it was fully erect, curled up to his stomach. There might have even been a glint of precome, shimmering drop perched at the tip. Steve ducked his head and very quietly breathed deep, steadying himself. _That_ , he had never seen. It was actually... Steve glanced at it again. Aesthetically, it was beautiful.

“Do you mind if I...” Normally Steve wouldn't ask. It wasn't up to the model what the artist drew. But this was a picture of Tony, for Steve, and it felt wrong not to let Tony in on his process, not to let him have veto power.

Especially if this was happening because of Steve, because he had been unwittingly manipulating Tony's emotions over the past few months. Steve winced as he thought about it, even opened his mouth to retract the request.

But then Tony was laughing, eyes darting to look everywhere but at Steve.

“Impressive, isn't it?”

Steve snorted. “Well, at least I know you've always stayed true to your promise not to watch any of the surveillance footage of us in the Tower unless it was to save our lives.”

Tony frowned. “You know I wouldn't. But. Why?”

Steve's lips quirked up at the corners. Humming softly to himself, he finished a smooth line down Tony's hip, carefully angling the pencil and changing the pressure as he went to sharpen the angle, emphasize the contrast of smooth skin and muscle with sharp, thin hips.

“If you'd ever watched _inappropriate_ footage of me in the Tower, you'd know that: what you've got there? Isn't going to impress me.”

Tony gasped, then laughed: a deep, full-body laugh. A real laugh. Steve relaxed back into his work, focusing on Tony's groin for the moment. He wouldn't be able to maintain that erection for long, especially as Steve continued to try to put him more at ease. Best capture the turgid length quickly, then focus on the rest of the drawing.

If that made Steve feel uncomfortably like Tony's erection was the focus of the piece, well, Steve would just have to get over that. It was for practical reasons. That Steve was working on it first. Working... Drawing it. Not... “working on”. Drawing. He was drawing the penis.

Very, very silently, Steve berated himself. He was an artist. He was drawing the male form. There was nothing awkward about this—not unless he acted like an immature child and _made_ it awkward.

“Oh, uh...”

Steve glanced up. Tony was staring down at his penis, hands on his hips, frowning quite sternly. Steve laughed, and made a note to memorize that image, that picture of Tony, to maybe put to paper later. Tony Stark, staring down disappointedly at his flaccid penis. Truly art worthy of the Met. A symbol of their modern age, it would be heralded. Steve snorted.

Tony glanced up at him, sheepish, but not awkwardly so. The tension that had been so thick in the room earlier was all but dissipated, to Steve's great relief.

“Uh, so... Do you want...”

Steve held up his hands and shook his head quickly, smiling as he did. “No need to call the troops back to attention-” Tony laughed hard, “I've got what I need. Don't worry about it.”

Tony was still laughing, now making a jerking motion with his hand. Even though his hand was a good two to three feet away from his penis, Steve still felt his ears grow hot at the movement. “You sure?” Tony asked between laughs. “Because I can just-”

“I've got what I need.”

“ _I've_ got what _you_ need,” Tony leered.

Steve _wasn't_ hiding behind his easel. He wasn't. He was making _art_ : he had to be back there. But he might have ducked down a little more than necessary, and focused an iota too hard on the lines of Tony's waist on the paper.

Luckily, Tony didn't tease him any further, and Steve fell into a comfortable rhythm of glancing at him and sketching dark lines onto the paper. He began smudging once he had the main outline worked out, smoothing into the valleys of Tony's body. He'd bring an eraser out shortly for the points of highlighted contrast, the lines of glowing light that highlighted Tony's body.

“Any luck with tracking down the supervillain?” Steve asked. The question came from as much of an effort to keep Tony from growing bored as it did a desire to hear Tony speak, to watch the way his body animated and lit up when talking about a problem.

Just as Steve expected, Tony's entire body changed, energy crackling through his system like a live wire. “You wouldn't believe the run-around these suits are giving me. And not the fun Asmovian kind, unfortunately. So you know how I said there was a hive mind?”

Steve hummed, not really listening. Or rather, he was listening: but he was listening to respond, to offer suggestions or solutions. He was just listening to listen.

“Well the behavior they're exhibiting is something like how nanobot swarms are programmed, with the predator/prey basic functions that everyone is using nowadays. Not saying it's dumb or anything, it'll probably work, I just haven't really looked into nanotech recently. Been too busy with my own augmentations. Anyway, the _behavior_ they exhibited was this hivemind program I recognized, but it's nowhere _in_ them. They're set up to be partially organic and self-repairing, they've got blood moving energy through their systems, though they can just as well run off repulsor energy. Then on top of all this there's some sort of centralized leader, someone controlling the hive somewhere _not_ amongst the guys we shot down. Which is smart, if you think about it: say a computer program, or me, figures out that they're all running off a hive mind. Then it'd be an easy thing to study their movements, figure out who the queen bee is in the field. It'd be the one moving independently, or the one most heavily guarded, something like that. There'd be a way to _tell_ , is the point. Then it's a simple matter of taking out one, taking them all out. If you've got the queen bee somewhere safe, somewhere out of the line of fire, then we can't take them all out by taking her out. ”

“How do you know there _is_ a centralized leader?' Steve asked. He smoothed a thumb over Tony's chin, softening the lines of the skin around the sharper lines of his goatee. “Isn't it possible to have a hive mind without a leader?”

That was apparently the right question to ask, because Tony lit up. “No! I mean, yes. But no!”

Tony shifted forward, made to hold his hands out to explain something to Steve or show him something, but then he seemed to remember where he was—and how little clothes he had on—because he pulled back in on himself, somewhat self-consciously.

But the moment passed, and he continued explaining just as enthusiastically. “It _is_ possible to program these swarms of tech to react to situations without a centralized brain of some kind telling them what to do. I've seen it. It's creepy as all get-out but has fascinating biomedical implications. Pathogen detectors and eliminators, that sort of thing. But!” Tony waved his hands, like he was brushing aside all that world-changing technology over his shoulder. “I know _these guys_ don't run that way, because of a little quirk I found when looking into how they absorbed each other's energy. You remember how they would explode bigger and bigger, and that's why I had to take them down all at once rather than let you blow them up?”

Steve frowned. He didn't think he much wanted to be reminded of Tony's most recent near-death experience.

Almost like he was trying to calm himself—which actually was exactly what he was doing, but Steve wasn't about to admit to that—Steve ran gentle fingers over the dark smudges of charcoal that outlined Tony's neck and collarbones. His hands moved down, over Tony's chest. Softly he sketched in all the darkness he needed, then smoothed it down, softened it into the curved of his pectorals, his sternum hidden just under the skin, sharply interrupted by the lines of the RT. Steve's fingers brushed over that spot in the center of Tony's chest probably more than was necessary. That spot of light that kept Tony alive; that captured sun, stolen fire from the gods, powering him.

“I seem to recall not being able to blow up the armor units,” Steve replied after a moment. His gaze flickered up to meet Tony's, and held. “I don't recall anything that necessitated you killing yourself to stop them.”

Tony's eyes flickered guiltily away, just for a second. But then they were back, facing Steve with a flash of defiance and a hard-set jaw. “It was the only way to make it work, given the amount of time I had.”

Carefully Steve rubbed at the charcoal on Tony's stomach, smudging in the lines of muscle hidden beneath the olive, hair-speckled skin. He took a breath, then let it out, as his fingers smoothed over Tony's diaphragm.

“There might have been another way,” he mumbled. “You didn't even entertain another option, didn't look-”

“You can't know that!” Tony shouted back. His high-pitched frustration was a melodic contrast to Steve's grumbling hurt. What a pair they made. “You can't know that because _you're_ not the expert at armor. _I_ am. And I say-”

“I'm sorry,” Steve conceded. He let his gaze drift up to connect with Tony's at the other man stopped short, cut himself off. “I'm sorry,” he repeated, meeting Tony's gaze. “But you can't blame me for being hurt. Being upset. You didn't have to watch your- your- your friend kill himself.” _Again_.

Tony seemed to deflate at that, all the fight going out of him. He smiled softly, crookedly, at Steve. Ran an abashed hand through his hair. Steve's eyes flickered up to the messy spikes, returning pencil to paper to try and capture their tousled beauty. So much of Tony was sexual, and his hair like that seemed like bed head, like he had just returned from a good roll in the hay. It went well with the raw sexuality the rest of the sketch was already imbued with.

“Okay, _okay_. You know you're not going to get me to apologize for saving everybody's life and also not dying. But. Okay. I get it.”

Steve looked over at Tony and watched as the man smiled at him again, a quicksilver thing, before glancing away. Not for the first time as of late, Steve wondered if he was manipulating Tony's actions, using his feelings—suspected feelings, not confirmed—to his unfair advantage. Guilt curled, wet and hot and nauseating, in Steve's stomach. He turned his eyes back to his work.

“My point is, when I was examining their hardware to figure out how that worked, I found something in their _software_. They're set up that way not just as a defense mechanism, like I thought. It's not just to make taking them down harder: If the centralized brain was ever in combat and taken down, then someone _else_ would take over. Each one of them has the hardware to be the leader, but none of them is. But all it takes is... Is a brain download, basically.”

Steve's fingers slipped over the paper, drawing a sharp line out from Tony's ear. He fumbled for his eraser.

“A brain download?”

“Yeah.” Tony didn't seem to be picking up on Steve's distress. “It's like a failsafe. As soon as-”

“Tony,” Steve interrupted him. He stepped out from behind his easel, so Tony would know to pay attention to him. It worked: Steve had Tony's full attention. “Doesn't that sound just like what... what you did? When- With Norman. To stop him.”

Tony blinked, then titled his head. “No it's...” Tony stopped, thought. A little furrow appeared between his eyes.

Secure in the knowledge that Tony was at least taking this seriously, Steve returned to his work. Supple lips, strong jaw, a surprisingly delicate nose. There was a blank spot where his eyes would go—Steve liked to leave those for last. A superstition, maybe. But he never wanted the portrait looking at him while he worked.

“No,” Tony finally said again. “I mean... Look, I'm not the first to invent a brain download. Your boy Zola-”

“ _My_ boy?” Steve grumbled good-naturedly.

“He did it, back in the day. Might be trying it again if your theory is right. I did it, sure, but it's not _significant._ ”

Steve smoothed his fingers over Tony's shoulders, smoothing down their edges, then sharpening the ridge of them up with pencil and eraser. Tony always had bony shoulders: always retained some shadow of a scrawny boy who was all knees and elbows.

“It just sounds like this villain of yours knows a lot about you, Tony,” Steve pointed out. “And it sounds like he's modeling these armors after you.”

Tony waved an easy hand. “No one can model their tech after mine. Not unless they actually get their grubby little hands on it, and even then it's only half the time, if that. Nope: we're good, old man. They don't stand a chance of matching what I'm packing.”

 _Mother and country_. No. Steve's stomach jumped as his eyes drifted back down to Tony's groin, staring hard at it before wrenching his eyes away.

Tony laughed. He had caught him looking.

“Yeah, and now you _know_ what I'm packing,” he teased.

Steve smiled tightly and returned to his work. He was leading Tony on, by doing this. But he couldn't help himself: Tony seemed so relaxed and happy here, skin shimmering in the sunlight streaming through Steve's apartment window, lines on his face almost absent. Talking about his mystery villain, explaining all his research and tinkering with this new piece of tech, Tony was at peace. Happy. Excited about tomorrow. Exactly how he was always _supposed_ to be. And Steve couldn't take that away from him—not when their little game had still asked so little of him.

“Besides,” Tony continued, “the only thing this wise-guy's been able to out maneuver me on is staying on the DL, which is actually pretty shocking considering the amount of ex-villains I'm keeping contact with just to track this guy down.”

“You'll find him, Tony.” Steve hadn't even hesitated, hadn't even given a second's thought to his response. Because it was true, and he knew it was true, just as sure as he knew complimentary colors or the weight of his shield. “You're a genius, after all. And like you said: No one can match you.”

Tony shrugged, muscles pulling beneath skin. Steve ran a hand down Tony's side, traced his fingers through the charcoal to make a path for the muscles buried there.

“Yeah, I know. I mean, he's smart at keeping a low-profile, that's for sure. And it's not like I'm the smartest guy out there. I mean, I _am—_ smarter than any of the bad guys, at least. Reed's smarter. But only at his stuff. I'm better at tech than he could ever _dream_ of being.”

Steve started laughing. He couldn't help it. Tony looked up, startled, lips half-curled up in a confused little smile.

“What?”

Steve shook his head, returning to his sketch. “You,” he replied. “You can't even turn down a compliment properly because you keep complimenting yourself.”

Tony shrugged again, loose and easy. It was a good look on him. Steve would do a lot to keep his friend looking like that. Sacrifice a lot.

The dilemma was, what happened when what needed to be sacrificed was Tony's own contentment? To keep him from getting hurt worse? Steve frowned down at his paper, eyes drifting to the blank spot where the eyes were still missing. Picking up one of his finest pencils, Steve started sketching the outline of those sharp, light eyes. Crows feet, laugh lines, stress lines. All there. All carried around in Tony's eyes every day.

What happened when there was nothing for _Steve_ to sacrifice to keep Tony happy and safe? What happened when Steve had to be selfish, had to be mean, to make sure Tony didn't get hurt worse?

Steve thumbed at the shadows beneath Tony's eyes, trying to smooth them away.

* * *

The apartment was blessedly quiet after a long day of dealing with SHIELD and Avengers and whatever else Steve had had on his docket that day. He hung his keys neatly up onto the hook by the door, then tied off his boots and set them nearly in the closet next to the door. He smiled softly as he glanced around his tidy place. Tony might be the type to want to come home to loudness, to clutter and mess—at least, Steve assumed that was what he preferred, judging by his various living places over the years. But Steve found it easier to relax when everything was put away, orderly, and quiet. Otherwise he just felt stressed thinking about all the things that needed doing, and all the clutter that surrounded him.

It was already late—much too late to be coming home, if he tried to measure his life by normal hours. But then again, since when was the last time his life kept normal hours? Boot camp, before the war? Before the serum. Even when he had his job as a comic book artist, he was still running around with the Avengers by night.

Sighing, Steve shucked his work clothes and chucked them into the hamper in his hallway before collapsing into bed. He smiled as he snuffled his face against his clean pillow cover, tugged the soft sheets against his bare skin. It was a long day, and not an easy one, but it was a good day's work. An honest day's work. And no one had gotten attacked or hurt, which always made for a good day in Steve's book.

Relaxing further into his mattress, Steve shifted around, getting comfortable. His hand drifted down his thigh, and Steve briefly let his fingertips stroke down the side of his flaccid penis, pondering whether or not he was too tired to bother. Then he tried to recall the last time he masturbated, the last time he had gotten off at all, and he realized he couldn't. Not for a moment, at least. Two months ago, was the earliest he could remember. Steve wrapped his hand around his penis and tugged more firmly. He could wait for his morning shower, but he never knew when he might be called in early for some emergency. Best he do it now, while he was awake enough and not running around, saving the world.

Shifting his weight around, Steve hauled himself up on his elbows and scooted up the bed, reclining onto his pillows. With his left hand he reached over to his nightstand, fumbling for the little-used lubricant in his dresser drawer. He squeezed some out into his right, then held the sheet up for himself as he reached down to grasp at his penis. He glanced as his nightstand one last time before he got going: tissues propped up where they always were. Good.

Steve let his head drop back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. He sighed softly through his nose as his hand started moving over his penis, lubricant slickening its path, catching all his nerves the way water found its way into every hairline crack in an old mug.

Steve cast his mind about for a fantasy. He wasn't pornography's biggest fan: too much mugging for the camera. Which he supposed was the point, and it wasn't that he _never_ watched it. But tonight he was already in bed, and he was comfortable, and he could make do with just a fantasy, this time. He just had to settle on one.

Past girlfriends were out. It felt oddly disrespectful, to think about them, to use them to ejaculate, but not to want to be with them. There were no women he currently had his eye on, either. He tried to conjure up an image of an imaginary woman, but she just ended up merging into someone he knew. Luckily, his penis didn't pay an attention to his wandering mind, and was fattening up easily under his hand's strokes, arousal slowly building within him.

No blondes. He dated too many blondes. And no red heads: Tony dated so many of them, all Steve could see was him, if he tried to imagine a red head. Maybe a brunette. He hadn't dated many brunettes. Maybe one with short hair, like so many women wore these days. Petite features, but strong. Light eyes—he was a sucker for a pair of big, baby blues. Petite all around: small chest, small hips. That was unlike most the women he had been with. But maybe tall, too. Lean. Athletic, really. Yes, that was good.

Steve imagined going down on her, the scent of her filling his nose, his lips caressing the soft, secret flesh, tongue delving into those concealed depths. His hips twitched, and he sighed again, a happy little noise. Maybe she'd be dominating: her foot on his shoulder, fingers tight in his hair, pushing her hips into his face. She'd be loud, talkative, even: telling him what she wanted and how it felt, ordering him to do more, deeper, faster.

He'd finger her a little, when he came up for air and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips. She'd grab his hips, lift her body up to his, encourage him in with a wicked smile and a challenging glint in her eyes. She'd be tight—tight and wonderfully wet, so slick from what he'd done to her. She'd welcome him inside of her, laughing and gasping as they moved together.

She'd be on top. Steve adjusted the movements of his hand, picked up the pace, as the fantasy changed. She'd be riding him, but not sitting up, not from a distance. She'd be lying on him, chest curled against his, only her hips rolling away from him, but coming back, driving him in deep. She'd be saying filthy things in his ear, whispering what he was doing to her, what she was doing to him. She'd be laughing and gasping the whole time, warmth surrounding him: her breath against his neck, her chest against his, her wetness tight around his length.

The phone rang. Steve gasped, stopped his hand immediately. He grabbed at his nightstand, heart racing for too many conflicting reasons. It was late. Too late. Calls this late were never good.

He almost knocked the phone off the nightstand before he finally managed to bring it up to his ear. “Hello?” Steve gasped. He had been close—achingly close. But Avengers business called.

“Stand down, Cap.” Tony's voice came through so clear over the line, it felt like he was in the room with Steve. “Not an emergency, just a social call.”

Steve groaned and fell back onto his bed. His hand flopped next to his penis, fingertips stroking half-heartedly at the turgid flesh. Damn Tony.

“Right,” he groaned. “Okay. Couldn't you-” Steve stopped himself. Tony didn't call him just to chat, which meant there was something on Tony's mind. Some problem or worry that was eating away at him to the point that he felt compelled to call Steve. It'd be rude and selfish of Steve to ask Tony to call back some other time.

“Sorry, Tony. What's on your mind?”

Steve could practically hear Tony's confused blink on the other end of the line. Darn it.

“Hey, no, if you're busy—you're breathing heavy, aren't you? Working out?” Tony's laugh filled Steve's ear. He did his best to keep his hand flat on his thigh, ignoring his still fully-erect penis. Half-heartedly Steve tried to level it with a disapproving glare. _Go down. I don't need you right now._ Unsurprisingly, his penis didn't listen.

Tony was still chattering away on the other end of the line, keeping himself amused, no doubt. “Unless you were doing something _else_ that would make you breathe that hard? But that can't be true, right? No way Captain America masturbates.”

So maybe Steve's patience _did_ have an end. “Well he does, and I wouldn't mind getting back to that. Unless all this has a point?”

“What?”

Tony's voice was shaky on the other end of the line. Well, if Tony couldn't take the answer to his own jibing, Steve deserved to press his advantage. “You're keeping me from-” Mother and country. Steve was all for pressing his advantage, but it hadn't occurred to him that he'd have to talk dirty—have to talk dirty to _Tony—_ to do it.

Well: as well for a sheep as a lamb, like his Mom used to say.

“I'd like to get back to jerking myself off,” he stated clearly. “I was almost finished when you called. And I'm,” no hesitation, definitely couldn't hesitate or the advantage would be lost, “I'm still hard. Now. Really hard. So. I'd like to continue to masturbate until I. Um. Ejaculate.”

“Was it me?”

“ _What_?”

Tony's voice was almost... breathy, over the line. Steve stiffened and shifted uncomfortably on his bed. He wasn't so sure about Tony, anymore: wasn't so sure this was a game to him. Which meant that it maybe cruel of Steve to be talking about this, to be pushing his advantage. But then again, Tony was the one who started it. And Steve couldn't exactly back down from a challenge.

“Are you jacking off over the picture of me? The nude you did.”

Steve's gaze immediately cut over to the side of his room, where the charcoal sketch still was.

“No.”

A heavy pause between the men. And then, because apparently Tony's verbal diarrhea was contagious, another sentence slipped from Steve's lips:

“Do you want me to?”

Another pause. A longer one. Steve might have thought Tony had hung up, except he could hear his breathing, his _heavy_ breathing, his _labored_ breathing, over the line. Was he getting off on this? Was he masturbating now, too? That was... This was taking it too far. Steve never wanted it to go this far. If things went this far, then feelings could get hurt, then _Tony_ might get hurt. And the last thing Steve ever wanted was for Tony to get hurt.

But then Tony's breathing changed, and he spoke. “Nothing better to masturbate to. Not gonna find a better specimen of a human.”

Slowly, Steve's fingers crept back to his groin. Completely independent of his conscious desires, but, there they were: wrapping around his hard length, stroking softly. Trying not to make too much noise, he shifted to hold the phone between his ear and shoulder, then reached for the lube on the bed. As quietly as he could he popped the cap and squeezed some more into his hand, then resumed stroking himself.

The muscles in his stomach jumped and the smooth, slick touch. That was good. That was better.

“Except you.”

Steve blinked, almost forgetting Tony was there. He glanced at the portrait of Tony again. It was strange, having Tony in his ear and then this idealized, artistic version of him in the room. Because Tony didn't look like that, not around Steve, at least. Not the way he saw his friend, or looked at him. The Tony in the portrait was animalistic, masculinity defined over every line and shadow, every smudge of the charcoal and hard, dark crease. The Tony on the paper was beautiful.

“What?” Steve mumbled, Tony's words finally registering. “Except for me?”

“'Peak of physical perfection,' right?” Tony asked. He was definitely masturbating. Steve's keen ears combined with the sound quality of the Stark phones meant Steve could hear everything Tony was doing, as if he were right there in the room with him. And in addition to Tony's heavy breathing, Steve could hear the unmistakable sound of slick flesh moving between slick flesh; he could hear every slide of Tony's fist over his erection and soft thump the fist made when it connected with the base of his groin.

Unconsciously, Steve's fist had started to match the pace of Tony's fist. His breathing picked up as he glanced over at the portrait of Tony again. But that wasn't right. Even if it was done through an artist's gaze, even if Steve could appreciate the male form from an aesthetic point of view... It was still _Tony_. No matter how idealized.

“Can we talk about women?” Steve gasped out. He shut his eyes, like that would help shut out the image of Tony in his room. It didn't work, it was _worse_ , even, because now all his focus was on the sounds Tony was making: the little grunts, the slap of flesh over flesh, the sound of his throat swallowing down saliva, he was probably messy in bed, Tony Stark. He probably got fluids everywhere, spit and lube and sweat. Not like how Steve did things. Just the opposite, really.

“Getting too hot and heavy for you?”

Steve swallowed the “yes” that threatened to burst forth.

He wasn't going to let Tony win this.

“No. Worried about you feeling inadequate,” he shot back. Sexy. He had to... to try and say something sexy. About himself. That was how these things worked, after all. He might not be the biggest fan, but he'd managed once or twice. When Sharon was away on a SHIELD mission too long and had wanted to try it, he had managed. He could manage now.

“Picturing me, you know. My hard abs, thick muscles.” Steve swallowed, forced his hand to keep moving over his erection, even as a vague feeling of sick dread welled up in his chest. “You know what else is thick?”

“You gonna tell me, super-soldier?” Tony's voice... Tony's _voice_. It wasn't hard to see at all what brought all those women to Tony's bed time and time again, wealth and genius aside. Steve tried opening his eyes again, to escape the immediacy of that voice.

“Everything's proportional,” Steve promised. “The serum did a good job on that. Enhanced everything. It's easy to feel inadequate next to that.”

“Not worried about that,” Tony replied. “You'd be the one taking it, after all.”

Steve's whole body stopped and went still. A tremor ran through his stomach, ending in his erection. Precome leaked in a heavy spurt from the tip, cock twitching in his tight grip.

“You sure about that?”

A groan over the line— _Tony's_ groan. Steve knew what Tony sounded like when he... That was a noise Tony made. During.

“You're the one who told me you like it up the ass,” Tony grunted. His voice was low, husky. Different from how he normally sounded: his normal register was higher than Steve's. It was odd, hearing his tone dropping so low. Different. Interesting.

He kept speaking, and Steve found himself listening. He couldn't tune it out, really: couldn't stop. Just like he couldn't stop stroking himself, listening to the words Tony was saying with that husky voice, picture the scene he was painting, even though it was against anything Steve could ever imagine being arousing.

“It's you big types, isn't it? It always is. Want me to hold you down and take you. Like you're small again. Want someone to take care of you. Bet you'd like that: My nice fat dick, better than any toy you had before.”

“I thought it be thin,” Steve breathed. Tony's breath hitched over the line, then all let out in a quick gasp.

“You thought?”

Steve quickened the speed of his strokes. The faster he got off, the faster this would be over. And he was already close: he had never gone limp from earlier, and now this was too long, much too long. He needed to get off and hang up and Tony, and figure out some way to apologize. Tomorrow.

“Like your fingers,” he grunted. “Thin, but long.”

“Fuck, Steve.”

“Is it?”

Tony groaned over the line. His strokes were speeding up, too. Steve could hear the harsh _slap slap slap_ of Tony's fist moving over his erection. It was strange. So strange.

“Sure, sure,” Tony whispered. “And I'll... I'll put my fingers in there with it, yeah?”

“Sure,” Steve whispered back. His eyes were screwed shut. He couldn't look at the portrait of Tony any more. Hearing him was better.

“And I'll be in you. Deep. Fucking over your prostate, yeah? Raking my nice long dick over it, stretching your hole wide with my fingers.”

“You'd be a fucking tease,” Steve bit out.

Tony gasped, groaned, long and hard. Steve's stomach jumped, his thighs trembled. He could... Did Tony just...

“Fuck, _fuck. Steve_.”

Steve was coming, shit, shit. With Tony's voice in his ear, with the _sound_ of Tony coming filling his sense, filling the room, it felt like, everywhere, around him... Steve was coming.

“Fuck you,” Tony laughed. His pants, short and sharp, seemed to fill up Steve's senses, to make up his whole world.

“Other way around, asshole,” Steve grumbled.

Tony made a little gurgling noise, a pathetic, wrung-out groan. Steve rolled over and grabbed for some tissues, trying to ignore the noise, trying to ignore the effect him swearing apparently had on Tony. It wasn't like he didn't swear. He swore. When the occasion called for it.

With sharper movements than were really necessary, Steve cleaned himself off. He needed a shower. He didn't normally, not after a quick masturbation session like this, but for some reason he wanted a nice long shower to wash off what he had just done. It was like Catholic guilt was back ten-fold, like it was when he masturbated as a teenager, with dirty pictures Bucky managed to sneak him whenever he was lying sick in bed.

“Get some sleep, Tony.”

Steve felt a flash of anger at himself in that moment. Tony had... Tony had taken _advantage_ of him, was what he had done. What he had felt like, at least. It was beginning to feel like this whole thing, this whole gay chicken debacle, was Tony manipulating him, Tony trying to squirm his way into Steve's... what? His pants? His bed? But it wasn't right. Steve wasn't gay, and he was under the impression that Tony wasn't, either. This was all happening under false pretenses. Tony was using Steve's desire to keep him happy to his own advantage, his own agenda.

And still Steve looked after him, told him to get rest when it seemed like he wouldn't. Steve was a rube, and he didn't much like feeling that way. All this time he was worried he was manipulating Tony, was the one taking advantage, but it was the other way around. Just like it always was with Tony. He was doing the same thing he always did, he was using Steve's... Steve's guilt, and their friendship, and everything they meant to each other, to get what he wanted.

If he wanted that. Which. Steve didn't even-

Steve covered his face with his hand.

“Get some sleep,” he said again. Then he pulled the phone away from his ear and depressed the “end call” button with his thumb. He let the phone drop the ground, not even minding that it was messy of him.

He lay there for a long time, left arm dangling over the edge of the bed, right over his face, breathing in the scent of lube and cum and thinking about Tony Stark.

 


	10. Chapter 9

 

“What do you think?”

Tony jumped half out of his skin when Steve spoke. The man was standing just over his shoulder, and Tony... Tony...

Tony blinked. Pried his mind away from the loose network of thousands of different pieces of technology it had drifted away into. Forced himself back into the present, back into his workshop, back to Steve.

“Huh?”

The world was spinning. Steve's hands were caging him in, pressing hard on either side of him, turning his chair around until they were nose-to-nose. Tony blinked up at Steve.

“When did you last sleep?”

One downside of Extremis was that Tony couldn't fake ignorance anymore. External memory took care of lapses in his own memory like that.

Still, Tony smiled sweetly up at Steve and patted his arm. “I'm fine.”

“Tony, the bags under your eyes have bags.”

Tony grunted and shoved Steve away. He didn't need _mothering—_ as much as Steve obviously got off on it.

“What are you even doing down here in the first place?” Tony grunted. His fingers slipped back into the holographic displays in front of him, fiddling with the soft reproduction of the latest iteration of organic armor that he had on file. His predictive simulation was becoming more and more accurate by the day. If only his geo-psychological profile was coming along as steadily. If it wasn't buried in the codes and wires of the machines, he probably wasn't going to be able to figure it out—he was an engineer, after all, not a psychologist. It didn't mean he was going to stop trying.

Glancing over, Tony noticed Steve shifting uncomfortably—or rather, doing everything to _keep_ from shifting uncomfortably, but his body language was an open book to someone who knew him as well as Tony did—and casting his eyes about for an answer.

“Is this a booty call? Sorry: busy.”

Even though Tony turned away almost immediately, a flush of embarrassment going up his neck and causing him to duck his head back to his work, he stayed looking at Steve long enough to see his expression darken. Great. Suddenly Steve had lost his sense of humor. Just what Tony needed.

“I was concerned. I hadn't heard from you since- for days.”

Very deliberately Tony ignored Steve backtracking what he had been about to say. It wasn't that Steve hadn't heard from him just in some indeterminate amount of days—Steve hadn't heard from Tony since that phone call. The one where Tony wondered if maybe he pushed Steve's nineteen-forties' sensibilities to their breaking point. 

But see, it wasn't Steve who hadn't heard from Tony since then. It was _Tony_ who hadn't heard from _Steve_. And Tony had had no plans to call Steve until the other man made the first move. Not because he felt awkward or uncertain about anything, but because it meant more points to him if he could resist. Or something. Tony had worked out the logic behind it a couple days ago. He just was having problems remembering all of it exactly now. Probably due to that whole lack-of-sleep thing Steve was pestering him about.

“Five more minutes, Mom,” Tony joked. Then he turned in his chair so he was half-facing Steve. His arms were crossed as he stared down at Tony, stern expression firmly fixed in place. Tony sighed and held up his hands, disconnecting them from his operating system interface. “Really. Let me just get my ducks in a row. It'll take five, ten minutes at the most. If I'm not done in fifteen, you have my permission to fireman-carry me out of here. Okay?”

Steve's expression softened, a tell-tale smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Tony's stomach churned at the sight, but he kept his expression loose and easy. He couldn't let Steve know he was starting to get nervous—starting to think maybe this wasn't a game anymore to Steve. But if he was wrong, if Steve really was just a trooper and stubborn as hell—which, granted, he definitely was—then Tony would lose by backing off. 

And if he was right... Then Tony didn't know _what_ he was supposed to do. Back off? Let on that he knew? Have a—science forbid— _talk_ with Steve about his feelings? Go along with it, _however_ far Steve wanted to?

Because it wasn't like Tony didn't owe him that. That, and more, considering what he'd put Steve through in the past. Even if the worst of it he couldn't remember first-hand, he had read enough news reports ( _all_ the reports, every _scrap_ of anything he could find) to know what he had done, almost as surely as if he had been there himself. And he'd put Steve through plenty that he did remember, plenty enough to know that he owed Steve anything he could ever ask of Tony. He owed Steve this, if Steve really felt that way. Wasn't sure he could go through with it, to actually “do the deed”... but at the moment, all options pointed towards staying the course, remaining relaxed and smiling and goofing around with his buddy Steve. Tony was a genius. He understood decision theory.

Steve shook his head ruefully and then nodded over at the couch Tony kept off to one side in his workshop. “Alright, but I'm keeping watch, you got that? And I'll hold you to that.”

“Got it,” Tony promised. He reached out one hand and brushed it against Steve's arm. Steve smiled and caught Tony's hands in his, squeezing lightly before releasing it. Tony watched Steve wander over to the couch. His stomach was churning again.

Frowning, Tony reached into his mini-fridge and pulled out a medicinal shake. Pepper turned him onto them: stomach-settlers. Loads of veggies and probiotics and who the hell knows. Even if it was just the placebo effect, they worked, so Tony kept making sure he stocked them. Hopefully it would settle his stomach this time.

As he immersed himself back into the data in front of him, Tony turned one ear to the sounds of Steve moving behind him. One tendril of thought poked into his security cameras, and Tony had a clear view in his mind's eye of Steve settling in on the couch and pulling out a book. Tony magnified the image. Asimov, third _Foundation_ book. Tony smiled softly to himself and returned to his work. He remembered reading those in middle school. Or, the age he was supposed to be in middle school. He loved them. Wanted to try and do psychohistory himself, for a while. Probably one of the reasons he was a futurist.

Some amount of time later—definitely more than fifteen minutes, but probably no more than two hours—Tony nodded off face-first into a projection he was working on. He groaned and straightened up, twisting his back this way and that. Okay. Okay. That was probably a good stopping point. Wherever he was. With a lazy flick of his wrist Tony flipped off the projectors for the night and shut down his workstation.

He stumbled his way upright, out of his chair, but found he couldn't be bothered to shuffle more than a few feet. Cushions were in front of him, nice cozy cushions, and Tony collapsed into them without thinking. He was asleep before his head hit whatever soft thing was serving as a pillow this evening, and in the morning wouldn't even be able to remember the journey from workstation to bed.

Tony's eyes drifted open once, at six am when the light from the city was cutting sharply into his lab. With a grunt he reached out mentally and activated the tint on the windows, darkening the workstation once more. He snuffled and pushed his hips back, settling into the warmth and comfort of the couch. The couch accepted him happily into its warm embrace.

Hours later Tony was being awoken an entirely different way. Shaking at his shoulders, some sort of noise in his ear. His dream told him it was some lover he had brought to his bed, trying to coax him into a second round or some morning sex before she had to leave for work. Still exhausted down to the very armor in his bones, Tony reached out and rubbed at a broad, shirt-clad shoulder leaning over him. “Need to head off?”

Some kind of affirmative noise, husky with sleep. Tony smiled and squeezed at the shoulder.

“Get a cab. Put it on me. C'mere.”

He levied himself up slightly, pursing his lips for a kiss. The body above him froze, tensed, pulled away. Tony frowned, mind becoming more clear by the minute. Blinking, Tony brought his eyes online—opened them, he _opened_ his eyes—and waited as the big figure above him came into focus.

“Tony. Hey. You awake?”

Tony wanted to close his eyes again, but he was too afraid he'd drift back off and make the same kind of... misjudgment again. Instead he just stared up at Steve, lips still pursed, hand still wrapped around his broad shoulder and tugging him gently down.

Nausea curled, hot and bitter and roiling, in Tony's stomach.

But Steve... Oh, God. _Steve_. Steve was just... just _smiling_ down at him, all soft, sleepy happiness and contentment. 

Tony panicked. He had let this go on too far. He had ruined things, _again_. Steve had developed feelings for him, Steve was _gay_ , Steve was happy to spend the night with Tony, spooning him, Steve looked right now like there was no where in the world he'd rather be, like he was so fucking happy to have Tony beneath him, Tony in his bed, Tony soft and pliant and willing... 

Tony had to take it away from him.

Tony _hated_ Steve for making Tony hurt him again.

Why couldn't he just be _normal_?

Steve was still talking. _Why_ was Steve still talking? “Hey, sorry, I know you need more sleep, but I gotta go. Maria called: apparently there's some-”

“What the fuck do I care?” Tony snapped. He rolled off the couch inelegantly, thighs cramping and one arm half numb. Resolutely ignoring those minor inconveniences, Tony stomped off towards his workstation, towards his tools and electronics and computers and safe things. Steve was following him. Tony kept his back on him, even though that position was its own cause for fear, for nervousness, now.

Steve should have just _told him_. Steve should have let him know at the beginning of all this that there might be complications, that he might get hurt. Steve had _lied_ to Tony, telling him he wasn't gay and didn't have feelings for him. _He_ had put Tony in this position, and it wasn't... it wasn't Tony's _fault_. He couldn't just magic himself gay for Steve. And all that guilt, and blame: that all fell on Steve's head, not Tony's.

“Hey, Tony: What's the matter with you?”

Tony kept himself firmly turned away from Steve, busying himself at his workstation. What _had_ he been working on the night before? It was all a big blur. Something about predicting the next version of the organic armor that this as-yet-unknown villain was throwing at him.

“Nothing's the matter,” Tony lied smoothly. “Got work.” He would _not_ apologize for his curtness. Steve didn't deserve that much.

But Steve just wouldn't _drop it_. Tony stiffened at the soft sound of Steve's stocking-clad feet padding across the epoxy finished floors. “Bad dreams? I didn't- You seemed pretty peaceful. I would have woken you if I thought-”

“No,” Tony cut him off.

“I find it's better to talk about them. You keep them in your head, trying not to think about them, at they stay big and vaporous, like they can get into your every nook and cranny. Putting them into words, it's like putting them in a cage, you know? Making them solid makes them less able to sneak in the chinks in your armor.”

“No chinks, no bad dreams.”

A pause. Then another quiet shuffling step. Tony imagined he could feel the heat from Steve's skin. He ran hot in the mornings, apparently.

Tony didn't need to know that. Didn't want that information his head.

“Don't you have somewhere to be?” Tony snapped when he didn't hear Steve start to move away. 

After a pause, Steve spoke up behind him. “Do we need to talk about this?”

“Chickening out?” Tony sneered. He turned around, suddenly certain that if he could face Steve, if he could look him in the eye, this would somehow be better. Easier. “Or is it the other way around? Something stirring inside of you, Agent Rogers? The scrawny kid from the forties finally having his say?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You liked it, didn't you? You _got off_ on the thought of me being stronger than you, me holding you down. All those women never work out because what you really wanted was a man. That how it is?”

Steve's voice was cold, his eyes sharp. “No. No, that's not 'how it is'.” Steve paused, leveling the full weight of his disapproval on Tony. “But what about you, Tony?”

“What about me?” Tony snapped.

“You don't know the the meaning of the word 'enough'. You never know when to quit. I'd say that's a pretty defining part of your personality, isn't it?”

Tony jerked back like he'd been slapped in the face. It _felt_ like he'd been slapped in the face. 

But Steve kept going. Like he didn't even see how much he'd hurt Tony. 

“Is that what this is? You just don't know when to quit?”

“I'm fine with this,” Tony reminded Steve. “ _You're_ the one who doesn't know when to quit.”

“My sexuality isn't in question, here.”

“And mine is?”

Steve threw his hand out, gesturing at the couch that they had just vacated. “Tony, are you even going to acknowledge that?”

“I was asleep.”

“You tried to kiss me.”

“Come on, Cap. I'm not gay.”

Steve sucked in a steadying breath. “I'm not saying you are. I'm... If you were, it would be okay, we can talk about this-”

“You're sure sounding pretty gay right now, you know.”

“It's more than just last night-”

Tony scoffed, dread curling in his stomach. He didn't want to talk about that. So he cut Steve off before he could, before he could put sweet, kind words to the basic, stupid thing they had done. “It was jacking off, Steve. Hardly skipping down the yellow brick road to make friends with Dorothy.”

“Then why are you being so snappish?”

“I'm not snappish!” Tony snapped. Then he clicked his jaw shut and turned away, face burning. “You were getting awfully cozy there, Cap. That's all I'm saying.”

“So sleeping in the same room-”

“ _Couch_.”

“Sleeping on the same _surface_ as each other is 'gay' but...” Steve hesitated, eyes flickering to Tony's, then away, “verbally guiding each other through masturbation isn't.”

“Fuck you.”

“ _I'm beginning to think you want me to_!”

“Get out,” Tony growled. He took two steps to close the gap between him and Steve, shoving hard at that all-American chest. Steve didn't budge, so Tony shoved harder, and harder, until he was beating at Steve's chest, and Steve was backing up from the sheer shock of it. “Get the _fuck_ out of my lab, Rogers. Get the fuck out of my home, out of my building, out of my offices and my property.”

Steve was almost to the door of Tony's office when he stopped stepping backwards and refused to be moved and further. “You're acting like a child.”

With RT-enhanced strength Tony threw himself forward against Steve, shoving him hard into the wall. Tony grabbed at Steve's jaw, holding it tight between pointed fingers. Steve glowered down at him, every inch of his body language declaring that he was _letting_ this happen, that if he didn't want to be there he _wouldn't_ be.

“Do you want to know what you're acting like, Steve? Because there's words for men like you, men who act like you've been acting, and they're not all of them nice.”

“Are they words you think to yourself every time you look in a mirror, Tony? Because I'm thinking maybe you should do that, sometime soon: take a look in a mirror.”

“You want this?” Tony hissed.

“Do you?”

Tony was painfully aware of how close they were. How their bodies were touching: chests, legs, hips, arms. His lips were inches from Steve's. Their harsh breath was mingling, spit falling to the other's cheek as they snarled at each other.

Tony could feel Steve half-hard against him. His body was behaving the same. From the adrenaline, and the morning. He was always hard in the morning. 

Deliberately Tony shoved himself against Steve harder, even rolled his hips.

“Do you?” he asked back.

And then, just for a _second_. A glimmer of... something, in Steve's eyes. Uncertainty, maybe. Something soft, and kind, and not at all in line with how Tony needed him to feel to go through with this... this... punishment.

With a growl Tony pushed himself away, released Steve's jaw with a hard shove. Steve stayed there, splayed against the wall of Tony's lab, panting slightly and looking ( _debauched_ , a traitorous corner of Tony's mind whispered) ruffled. 

“Get the fuck out of my lab,” he repeated, though with far less heat in his voice than last time. 

“I'll see you when I see you,” was all Steve said in response. Tony kept his body turned away from Steve as he left, though Tony's electronic eyes followed him every step of the way out. 

When Steve reached the edge of Stark Resilient property he turned back around and looked for a long moment. His eyes were fixed on the security camera in the top corner of the building—the one Tony was watching him through at just that moment. Tony held his breath as Steve looked at him, and looked, and looked. Then he turned away and took off down the street, without even a jaunty salute or nod of his head.

Tony took mental control of the organic armor on his workstation floor and hurled it through the third-story window out onto the street below.

Let the NJPD clean it up.

* * *

“Falcon: get over to the south entrance and mop up any stragglers. Black Widow, help him out. Iron Man, you get into the lab yet?” Bucky's voice was clear and confident over the comm in Steve's ear as he shouted orders to his team. Steve just focused on slinging his photonic shield and catching it on the rebound, taking down as many suspected Zola workers as he could without doing too permanent of damage. They needed as little collateral damage as possible—not just for ethical reasons, but so they could get more info on Zola's plans. Because the big guy himself wasn't here, of course.

“Already here, Bucky-Cap. Downloading the secret files as we speak.” A muffled crash over the comms. Steve hurled his shield at the nearest wall and grunted with satisfaction as it took out two scrambling Zola goons on the rebound. They were down for the count.

When the crash wasn't followed up by anything, Steve paused and pressed a hand to his ear. “Iron Man: Status report.” He ignored Bucky's annoyed growl.

Tony's tone was sharper than it should be. “Fine, Mom. Thanks.”

Steve waited for more information, but Tony didn't offer any. “What was that crash I heard?”

Some henchman was sneaking up on Bucky, who was erstwhile occupied with tying a half-dozen other henchmen into a neat little bundle. Steve tossed his shield and downed him, not even waiting for acknowledgment from Bucky as he caught his shield and headed away. He knew where the archives and offices of the building was—where Tony was currently occupied. He'd just head over there to check.

Tony was replying even as Steve headed across the open space of some kind of manufacturing floor to the back rooms. “Henchmen was here. Took him out. He's lying in a corner taking a little nap while I download all this data. Would you like me to describe the color of his eyes?”

“Cut the chatter, you two,” Bucky ordered. His tone was not as professional as it could be, no faint edge of irritation to it.

Steve clicked his mouth shut and focused on his task of taking down the last remaining workers inside the building and securing the place. And he wasn't doing a half bad job at it, either, until another grunt came over the comms.

“Iron Man?” Steve was running through the halls without a second thought, heading for the main archive room Tony was supposed to be in. Only, when he rounded a corner and skidded to a halt in front of the doorway, Tony wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere in the room. Nor was there the henchmen Tony claimed to have taken down anywhere to be seen.

One of the many constant knots of worry Steve nursed inside his gut flared up. 

“Iron Man?” he repeated over the comms. Tony wasn't even supposed to _be_ here, this wasn't an Avengers mission: this was Steve's personal vendetta, his own attempt to stop Zola before he did more evil. Tony had his own problems to deal with between the organic armor villain and Stark Resilient, not to mention _actual_ Avengers business. Steve should have never let Bucky ask Tony to come along, even if he did have the technical know-how to gather and sort through data faster than any of them could. 

Bucky's voice was harsh over the comms: “Damn it, Rogers! No going off-script.”

Steve ignored him. “Iron Man, come in. What's your location. Are you injured?” Even as he spoke Steve was running down the halls that connected all these back offices, ducking his head in each one and checking quickly for Tony before moving on. As he rounded one corner a henchmen popped out, almost startling him. Steve took him down with a fist to his temple, running past him before the guy even hit the ground.

Finally, blessedly, Tony's voice came over the line. Even if it was only to grunt “Busy.”

“Where are you pinned down?” Steve asked. Because that's definitely what it sounded like: Tony was pinned down by some henchmen, fighting them off when he was supposed to be here as an information-gatherer only.

When Steve stuck his head into the next office he stumbled to a halt. _There_ was Tony, and he wasn't fighting off a hoard of evil Zola henchmen or monsters or whatever other horrors Steve's imagination had managed to produce. No, the scene in front of Steve was much more viscerally terrifying.

Illuminated only by a bank of computer screens, Tony Stark looked like he had been pried apart and put up on display for some sort of nefarious purpose. The Iron Man armor was split open at every joint, panels of it agape and wires feeding into the maws they created. The faceplate was up, so Steve could see the pained expression of Tony's face: sweat dripping down his temples and the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut, moving beneath the lids like restless insects, fighting to burst forth and break free. His body trembled, practically pulsing, with the wires that infected him.

With a cry Steve moved forward and hurled his positronic shield through the wires invading Tony. He didn't even bother to catch the shield on the rebound, just let his momentum carry him forward and threw himself into the wires, ripping and pulling them apart with his bare hands. Above him, Tony cried out and jerked, a full body spasm. With a half-mumbled apology Steve kept at it, tearing at every wire until Tony was collapsing back into his arms, finally free from Zola's nefarious computer systems.

Steve bent over Tony, gently tapping at his cheek with one gloved hand. “Hey. Hey, you okay?”

Tony's eyes stayed closed for a long moment, his face scrunched up in pain. Then the lines of his face eased and his eyes shot open. They locked straight onto Steve's.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

Steve blinked, startled. “Tony?”

With a roar of frustration Tony threw his hands against Steve's chest and shoved him back with all the strength of his armor. Steve fell, catapulted backwards several feet across the room, coming to a skidding stop on his rump. He shook his head to clear it. Was Tony possessed by some Zola-virus? “Tony?”

“I almost _had it_!” Tony growled. Steve watched, brain only barely catching up to his mistakes, as Tony shook himself forcefully. All the wires that Steve had ripped in half and that were still jutting obscenely from Tony's armor fell away in an instant. His armor closed itself back up, smoothing itself back into the sleek design that Steve was used to seeing with him in battle. 

“I thought-”

“This is why you were with the other meatheads, Rogers,” Tony snarled. “You wanted me here to do a job, and I was _doing that job_.”

“You didn't reply-”

“I was _working_!”

Steve stopped for a moment, panting heavily. His cheeks were flushed hot with humiliation. Of course Tony had been working. Of course he was just doing the job Bucky had asked him here to do. Steve should have known better. He should have trusted Tony more. He really was a meathead.

“Sorry,” Steve gritted out. “Sorry. I just... When you didn't reply, and you weren't at the office-”

“Change in plans. The servers I needed were here, not there. I improvised.”

“You just looked like... I thought it was an attack-”

“It was hardwire!” Tony shouted. He swung a gauntleted hand back at the console which Steve had so effectively destroyed. “His systems were locking me out faster than I could get in wirelessly, so I went hardwire with it!”

“I'm sorry,” Steve repeated. He considered explaining himself again (or if that would just make things worse, but then a more pressing concern occurred to Steve. 

“You were hardwired into Zola's systems?”

Tony rolled his eyes disdainfully as he began to lever himself upright. “It's what I just said, isn't it?” Once he was vertical again, Tony went straight over to the consoles and started mucking around with them, fingers flying over keyboards and mind obviously already gone, deep within the recesses of the computer system.

“Stop! Tony!” In a smooth movement Steve jumped upright. He clasped a hand to Tony's armor-clad shoulder and yanked him back. The expression Tony leveled him with was nothing short of incensed.

Steve tried to explain himself before Tony could shove him off again. “What if there's a virus? Or a...” what did Tony call it... “a Trojan horse. Something Zola left behind-”

“It's _fine_ ,” Tony growled, yanking his shoulder out from Steve's grip. He was back to burying himself in Zola's computer system in a matter of seconds. “You've already made me lose any chance we had at getting _useful_ information.” His irritation grew by the second. “Deleted, deleted, deleted, corrupted, corrupted, corrupted.” He glanced back at Steve only to level a truly chilling glare at him. “This is why I went hardwire in the first place: to get fast enough to steal the information off the servers before the failsafes Zola had in place took their virtual cyanide pills.”

“If Zola was smart enough to leave those failsafes in place, how do you know-”

“I'm _fine,_ Steve-”

Growling, Steve's hand shot out and grabbed Tony by the shoulder, pulling him forcefully away from all the displays. If Tony was too stupid to have a self-preservation instinct, Steve would just have to have it _for_ him. 

“You already said the data's corrupted,” Steve pointed out as he manhandled Tony away from the computers. “Take a break and we'll cart them out of here for you to check later. Under controlled settings. But first: you need to get checked over for mind control or a... a Zola-virus!”

“I'm not being mind-controlled-”

“You need to get checked out. We'll get some people to run scans-”

“For fuck's sake, Steve, I'm not your girlfriend!” In his shock Steve loosened his grip enough that Tony was able to shove himself away without hurting Steve. Tony glared at him, panting slightly. “I'm not Sharon!”

Steve's mouth move, his throat worked, but he couldn't find the words. Finally he managed to stutter: “I... I didn't... I don't-”

“Then stop treating me like her. Stop being a fucking control freak and back off, and let me make my own calls!”

Humiliation flared up, hot and unwelcome, in Steve's chest. Angrily he turned away from Tony, hiding his oh-so-easy to read face from the other man. He _hadn't_ been treating Tony like Sharon, or like a girlfriend. He hadn't. Because he didn't think of Tony like that. And he didn't treat the women under his command any differently than the men no matter how he felt about them, but that was beside the point. 

“You're one to talk,” Steve snapped.

Misunderstanding, Tony shot back: “ _You're_ the one who's been getting antsy around me, getting possessive and needy. I haven't-”

“I mean about being a control freak,” Steve corrected him.

“ _Me_?” Tony snorted incredulously. “Look in a mirror, Rogers.”

“Really? Because I seem to recall _you_ being the one thinking you know so much better than the rest of us that you started your own secret club to _govern the world_.”

Tony laughed cruelly. “Didn't stop you from joining us, did it?”

With a snarl Steve stepped forward, jabbing a finger into Tony's chest. “You think you know best! You _always_ think you know best, you _always_ want to be the one to decide what's best for everyone else, to control everyone's every little thought and feeling and emotion-”

“Well it's not my fault if you're too up your own ass with forties mores that you can't be a reliable gauge of your own emotional state.”

Steve spluttered. This wasn't about _him_ having feelings. It was about Tony. “I'm not the one-”

“Don't even start-”

“- _you're_ the one-”

“-don't pretend not to know-”

“- _you_ don't know-”

“I see the way you look at me!” Tony shouted. “The way you looked at me that morning in my lab. You _wanted_ it, Rogers. You were fucking _aching_ for it.”

Steve acted without thinking. With a singular burst of super-soldier strength, he grabbed the front of Tony's armor and _shoved_. Four, five, six steps back, and he was crashing Tony into the bank of computers, shattering all that precious technology and pushing Tony into it, holding him up so his feet weren't touching the ground.

“Don't tell me how I feel! Don't project how you feel onto me, don't make _me_ the one who's wrong because _you_ can't cope, Stark!”

“I _always_ cope, Steve!” Tony shot back. “ _You're_ the one who leaves!”

“You're the one who makes yourself forget! Booze or tech, you _always_ make yourself forget me.”

Bucky's voice crackled over the comms. “You guys are aware that your comms are live?”

As one Tony and Steve turned from each other and shouted into their comms: “ _Shut up, Bucky!_ ” 

Steve turned back to Tony. But the anger was suddenly gone. All the rage and frustration was replaced thanks to that momentary break in the argument with a confusing mess of worry and guilt and fear. 

Gently Steve set Tony back down and pried his fingers loose from the armor plates.

“Salvage whatever information you can,” Steve muttered. He turned away to hide his face from Tony, not ready to look at him or let him look just yet. “Hand it over to Captain America.”

Hurriedly Steve started from the room, broken wires and glass crunching under his heavy boots. 

“I'll see you when I see you,” Tony murmured just as Steve stepped through the doorway.

Steve didn't reply.

 


	11. Chapter 10

 

These fucking armors, _again_!

Tony grunted and rolled, his armor safe and secure around his body as he dove into battle. The organic armors were back, and better than ever it would seem. This time they had interrupted him at a fucking business meeting in downtown Manhattan, discussing new energy technologies with possible investors. And these armors had popped up right outside, with all the screaming civilians and property damage that entailed.

Tony had a feeling the business men he was meeting with were going to decide _against_ investing in Stark Resilient. These fucking _armors_.

A repulsor blast shot past Tony's head, a hair's breadth from hitting him full in the face. Tony cursed and dove, coming back up at full speed to knock the offensive armor straight in the chest. The armor stumbled backwards in midair, but then turned toward him once more. It locked onto him and fired. Cutting power to his repulsors, Tony let himself drop ten, twenty feet before firing them back up again. The blast had missed him by about a foot.

“Iron man!”

 _And then there's this asshole_ , Tony thought to himself. Steve's voice was crisp and commanding over the line, even though he shouldn't even _be here_ , since this wasn't his job anymore. Not really.

“Deja vu,” Tony grumbled as a greeting.

“Iron man, why the hell don't we have an early warning system in place for these things?” Steve demanded. “I thought you were working on that?”

“We do have one!” Tony shouted in exasperation. Ducking and weaving again, Tony threw out a new trick he'd been working on, just for these guys: shock net. It hit one of the armors, wrapping around it tightly and dropping it to the street below with an electric shock strong enough to down an elephant. The thing was still struggling when it hit the ground, but the net drilled itself into the asphalt, holding it there. Maybe it would actually keep, maybe it wouldn't, but it was one less armor he was dealing with right now, so Tony counted that as a win.

“Why isn't the early warning system working then, Iron Man?” Steve called out.

Now Tony saw him. Steve was bringing in the SHIELD troops. Figured. Tony rolled his eyes and ignored the ground troops, who were hurrying after civilians and evacuating the street, cordoning off the surrounding area. At least he didn't have to worry about crushing little Suzie under a giant robot if he had to take more to the ground.

“It should,” Tony growled. The early warning system _should_ work on these organic armors, but it _wasn't_. Tony was locked into their electronic signature, that had been easy (in part because the damn things had such a close electronic signature to his own). The warning system worked when he tested it under lab conditions just fine. But every time these things showed up, it was like they just _appeared_ : no flying into Manhattan, no discernible travel time at all. It was like the damn things were popping up from the sewers or something.

Hm. That was a thought. Tony added a mental note to his collection: _Check Sewers_.

“Well it doesn-”

Shock. Overwhelming, horrible shock. Tony screamed, entire body spasming. What... What was...

He moved. He moved, but he wasn't moving. No, that wasn't right. He was moving, but he wasn't moving himself, he wasn't willing it to happen. His mind spasmed again, screaming at him. _No stop move no here move no stop now move move left up move move FIRE_!

Tony screamed and pulled back, away, shaking his mind loose. Too late he realized his repulsors were firing, and he was aiming right at Steve. When had he flown there? When had he decided to fire? Tony's brain booted up a second too late.

“Steve!”

Thank everything merciful Steve was fast. Freakishly fast. He already had his positronic shield up, deflecting the blast easily. In fact, the only damage done was that Steve was staring over the edge of his shield, _glowering_ at Tony with the full force of the Steve Rogers disapproving stare.

“Iron Man, if you don't explain yourself-”

“They took me over!” Tony gasped. That's what it had been. The armors had _taken control of Extremis_. It had been just for a _moment_ , just for a split-second slice of time. But it had been long enough to fly him over to Steve, long enough to aim his repulsor beams and fire. Tony felt sick with something that he might have called shame in any other man, except that he was pretty sure he outgrew the ability to feel shame somewhere around the time he was crashing in flophouses with ten-dollar whiskey filling his stomach.

“They took _what_ over?” Steve asked. “Your suit?”

“Me!” A repulsor blast tagged Tony's shoulder, causing him to grunt and his system read-outs to go wild. He blinked, scanning them quickly. “They're using standard repulsor energy,” he mumbled to himself. _That_ was new. It was percussion energy now, not heat like it was last time.

Shit. That meant they were even closer to Tony's tech than ever before. Which he probably should have figured, since the bastards had _hijacked his damn brain_.

White-hot fury enveloped Tony. No one stole his brain away from him and got away with it. He was sick and fucking tired of people thinking they could do that to him, thinking they could just take away his autonomy, take away his memories and his self. He was _his_ , and he was never going to be _theirs_.

With a roar Tony launched himself back into the fray. He didn't have a clear plan, but one might have been forming. Tony dove shoulder-first into the armor that had shot at him, slamming into its chest with enough force to drive it back a city block. In midair Tony reared back and thrust his hand through the thing's head, punching through layers of armor to the soft, gooey organic matter underneath. Another roar, and Tony was peeling back his own armor from his fingers, coming into direct contact with the brain matter inside the armors.

In a flash he could see it, through Extremis. They were still hive-minded. They were just so close to him, their brainwaves so similar, that they were able to tap into his mind, to imitate it to Extremis and get past all his defenses. Inside his helmet, a feral grin split Tony's lips. If they could do it to him, he could do it them.

A flash, a jolt. Tony's back arched in midair, abrupt and terrible. Tony gritted his teeth but kept going. And then... _there_. The hive-mind. The collective. In one terrible instant Tony saw each and every one of the armors. He _was_ each and every one of the armors. Saw what they saw, felt what they felt, was where they were. And then, in the next second, Tony shut them down.

The armors fell from the sky like the worst tales of polluted rain the environmentalists had ever warned everyone about. With a shuddering gasp Tony came back to himself, eyes flashing open in his own head and nowhere else. Disgust surged through him as he remembered where his hand was, and he yanked it free of the organic armor, sending it tumbling down to the ground with the rest of them. Tony shook his hand out, wiped it ineffectually at the outside of his armor. Brain matter still stuck to it. Tony shuddered and didn't bring his armor back over it. Brain matter stuck to his hand was bad enough: brain matter squishing against his skin inside a metal suit was way worse.

Steve's SHIELD lackeys were already grabbing up the suits by the time Tony dropped to the ground: hustling them onto flatbeds and wheeling them into the cutesy little trucks they rode in on. Growling to himself, Tony stormed over to Steve who was overseeing the operation.

“I need at least two of them,” he told Steve.

“No.”

Tony stared at Steve, half-expecting him to be joking. Judging by the set of that perfect jaw of his, he wasn't.

“'No'?” Tony snorted. “I was asking as a courtesy, you know.”

Steve stared down Tony unflinchingly. “You mind telling me what happened here?”

“They took control of Extremis,” Tony explained, too sick and tired of playing games with Steve to bothering playing one now. “But since they could do that, I could do it right back to them. I took control of them— _all_ of them. And made them shut themselves down.”

Steve visibly flinched, like he'd been slapped. “They _took control_ of you? Of your body? Tony...”

“Yeah, crazy, I know. Listen: I need two of them so I can examine their hive-mind better, see what kind of network-”

“Tony, they _took control of you_!”

Tony rolled his eyes. Steve Rogers and his obsession with mind-control. It wasn't Tony's fault that the guys who held a grudge against Steve had such a hard-on for brainwashing his friends and lovers. He didn't have to take it out on Tony.

“Are you going to give me what I want or not?” Tony growled.

“No!”

Tony actually took a step back at the force of Steve's response. Steve seemed to realize this, because suddenly his voice went soft, his tone soothing. He even a reached out a hand to Tony, like he wanted to comfort him.

“Tony, please. We have to keep this away from you until we can make sure they won't hurt you. Let the SHIELD labs look at them-”

“If you're not going to give me what I want, Rogers, then don't waste my time,” Tony snarled. Then he blasted off from where he stood, leaving a distressed looking Steve Rogers in his wake.

* * *

Sweat was cooling fast against Tony's skin as he let the armor slide its way back into his bones. The adrenaline of battle was still pumping through his veins, body thrumming with the heat of a victory, of a new discovery, of something to do and learn and tinker with and explore. Except he had to wait until Steve cleared the new armors before he got to mess around with one. Because Steve had decided to be an immature asshat and take his fucking sexual frustration or whatever out on Tony. So now he had to _clear_ the armors before he let Tony at one.

Never mind that these armors had managed to temporarily latch into the Extremis system and wrest control of Tony's suit away from him. It wasn't for safety reasons that Steve was keeping the armors from Tony until his techs checked it out—Tony had managed to regain control in a matter of seconds, and _he_ was the one who figured out how to take them down, in the end. Obviously the only logical person to leave the armors with was Tony. Steve's refusal to hand them over right away was an obvious play, revenge on Tony for refusing to return his feelings, or refusing to lose the game. Tony still wasn't sure which it was, though after the last couple weeks it was becoming pretty obvious it was the former.

But Tony wasn't going to let Steve win. And he wasn't going to let Steve put him in the position that he had to _hurt_ him again. No, Steve was a big boy, and he had made this bed as much as Tony had. If he was too stubborn to call this off once his feelings had gotten compromised, well, that was _Steve's_ fault, not Tony's. Tony wasn't the bad guy here, and he wasn't going to let Steve shove him into that role. _Again_.

Still, he needed to burn off this energy somehow. He was buzzing with it. Which, speaking of _buzzing_... Tony grinned and started over to the elevator to his apartment. He knew just how he could burn off this energy tonight. As he pushed the button to call the elevator, Tony adjusted himself in his undersuit. He was already getting hard. Steve could keep the damn armors tonight, for all Tony cared. Keep them and return to his sad, lonely little Brooklyn apartment while Tony enjoyed himself as much as surround-sound porn and top-quality vibrators would allow him. Which was a lot.

“Tony.”

Tony groaned and banged his head against the wall. What the _fuck_.

“What do you want, Steve?” he grumbled.

He turned around to see Steve hurrying toward him across the lobby, concern etched plainly in every feature. Inwardly Tony shied away from that, from those emotions at play clearly across Steve's distinct lack of poker face.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. You left-”

“I'm fine.”

To Steve's credit, he didn't get angry or frustrated. Not in the slightest. Because he was perfect fucking Steve. Instead he took another step forward, into Tony's personal space, and reached up to touch a gentle thumb to just above Tony's eyebrow. Pain flared up, and Tony winced. He'd already forgotten about any of the dings he'd taken in the battle.

“It's fine,” Tony repeated again. His voice had gone soft. Steve was so close, nose and eyelashes and lips just inches away. There was no need to speak up.

Steve's eyes met his, full of nothing but concern and... whatever that soft emotion was, that lightening of the lids and easing of worry lines Steve seemed to get whenever he looked at Tony these days. It was that emotion Tony saw the morning they woke up together. That emotion that made Tony's blood boil and skin crawl. Coupled with the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the half-chub lying heavy between his legs, Tony felt like he was going to burst out of his skin, cover Steve with his unbridled emotional turmoil.

“Do you need anything? I was going to-”

Steve leaned in.

 _Steve leaned in_.

Tony jerked backwards, head thunking against the elevator lobby wall behind him.

A ding. The elevator was here.

Steve was frowning at him, red lips parted, small little worry line formed between his eyebrows.

“What are we doing, Tony?”

Tony paused for a second, glancing up at Steve. He took in his nervous expression, his worry, his discomfort. Then, because Tony was an asshole, he grabbed Steve's shirt and backed up into the elevator with him.

“I don't know, Steve. What _am_ I doing?

This was it. This was the moment that Steve would say “enough is enough” and leave him. Tony could feel it. And it was kind of a relief, really. After all this time, after everything Tony put Steve through, he hardly deserved to have him as a friend. Much less something more.

But then, to Tony's surprise, Steve took a step forward, further into Tony's personal space. His eyes were sad; his hand came up to cup Tony's cheek. Tony flinched.

“I didn't ask what _you_ were doing,” he said. “I asked what _we_ were doing. Tony.”

Tony hesitated, eyes searching Steve's for some sort of correct answer. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Steve was supposed to get mad at him, or shake his head in disappointment, and ultimately, most importantly: _walk away_. But Steve wasn't doing that. Steve was still here.

Tony trembled.

The elevator moved up the stories, automatically keyed to take Tony to his apartment. Steve had maybe ten seconds to turn his back on Tony. To walk away.

The elevator dinged. Steve didn't move.

Casually Tony pushed past Steve, dragging himself against him, making no effort to put space between them.

“I'm just getting undressed,” Tony said with a shrug. With a casual movement Tony peeled the underarmor off his arms and down his chest. It sat low on his hips, barely concealing his modesty (whatever that was). “Getting in bed,” he continued. He stepped over towards the bed. “Masturbate. Fall asleep with my hand still down my pants. The usual. Now what are _you_ doing, Steve?”

Tony hated himself, sometimes. Most times. Especially right now.

He turned to glance over his shoulder, watching Steve. Steve's jaw had gone rigid and he was standing still, like he had no plans to leave the elevator. The doors began to close. Tony breathed a sigh of relief.

And then stopped breathing, because Steve stuck a hand out and stopped the elevator doors.

Then he stepped out of the elevator and dropped his pants.

His penis was mouth-wateringly proportional to the rest of him. And it wasn't even erect yet. Tony gaped.

“Sounds like a plan, Shellhead.”

Tony needed to sit down.

He did so, heavily, on his bed. Steve looked like he might hesitate, but then he tugged off his shirt and walked over, fully confident down to every little hair on his chest.

Had Tony known he had a hairy chest? Of course Steve had a hairy chest. He didn't wax or shave.

His chest hair was blond.

Tony looked away.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Tony snapped.

Steve nodded at the TV which dominated the wall in front of the bed. His hands were drumming nervously at his knees. Tony didn't think he was aware of it.

“Got any all-time favorites?”

Tony laughed. And then he couldn't stop laughing, because Steve was asking him about his favorite pornos, and Steve was sitting naked on his bed just as casual as you could please, and it was so _absurd_ and _ridiculous_ and Tony might be able to see the future clearly a hundred years out but he couldn't see the path behind them and how they had ever gotten to this point.

It was almost easy, then. Almost like they were friends, like this stupid game wasn't slowly eating them from the inside out, like a termite infestation invisibly chewing through the foundations of a house, until there was nothing left but sawdust and broken dreams. Tony flicked on the TV with his mind and called up the list of pornos he had on his servers.

“Any preferences?” he asked, and it was like they were ordering take-out together, deciding on a menu.

Until he glanced over at Steve and saw him sitting easily on the side of his bed, nude and slowly hardening between his legs.

Tony gulped and shifted away.

“Hey!” Idea. Idea time. “Get comfortable, why don't you? Bed's big enough for two. I'll just-” Tony jumped up and hurried to the far end of the bed, away from Steve. “I'm over here, you're over there...” Tony watched and didn't watch as Steve settled in on his side of the bed. The other side of the bed. Not... not “his” side.

“Alright, now come on, suggestions. I got at least a dozen of anything you could ever want. You like blondes? I got every shade of blonde the cosmetic factories can bottle.”

“Brunette,” Steve interrupted him. Tony glanced over and raised an eyebrow. “Brunette,” Steve insisted again.

Tony shrugged. “Brunette it is.”

“Can you...” Steve trailed off, forcing Tony to glance over at him. He was sitting like Tony, upright and propped against the headboard of Tony's bed. His legs were spread comfortably wide out in front of him, softly hairy thighs leading down to densely hairy calves leading to strong sharp ankles. Tony focused his gaze back up, at Steve's face, though staring at Steve's ankles was probably the most minor faux pas he could commit this evening.

“Want something more specific? You just gotta ask.”

“Two women?” Steve asked eventually. “And... Make sure...”

Tony considered Steve for a moment, thought about what he might be wanting. “Want a guy to get involved? Two brunettes?”

Steve shook his head. “Whatever you want for the other one.”

“Blonde, then.”

Steve seemed surprised by this, but he didn't say anything.

“So, two women, blonde and brunette, and... what? What was the last thing? Vibrators? Nipple torture? Butt plugs, anal, two-headed dildos-”

“Make sure they're liking it?”

Tony stared at Steve for a moment. Steve was flushing, and wow, the flush when down his throat and to his chest. Tony found his gaze traveling down until he had to remind himself this was _Steve_ and he was _straight_ and this was just something they were doing as _buddies_ and dragging his eyes back up to meet Steve's. He was staring steadfastly at Tony, jaw stubbornly clenched against that rosy little blush.

“Soft and sweet then?” Tony confirmed. “No problem.”

The display in front of them lit up, four, five, six different screens filling the wall. Tony grinned. “I got a whole variety for you, Steve. Just lie back and let me take care of you.”

A strangled noise next to him. Tony resolutely kept his eyes on the TV, wishing desperately to take back what he'd just said. Did Richards still have that time machine? Because Tony had suddenly figured out a use for it that he would have no moral compunction against.

“Lube's in the drawer next to you,” he informed Steve, mostly to find something to say.

He listened as Steve moved next to him, the bed rolling as he reached over, slid open the drawer, and extracted the lubricant. With nothing else to do, Tony started a couple of the most promising looking videos and then turned to the nightstand next to his side of the bed. He rummaged around for a moment until he found the lube, then settled in without looking at Steve. The women on the screen laughed and smiled as they started to kiss.

For a minute, maybe two, Tony just sat there, completely still, as he waited for Steve to move or talk or start jacking off or just _leave_.

When he finally did, it wasn't anything that Tony had been expecting. “Aren't you...”

Damn it. He kept trailing off and making Tony _look at him_. Cautiously Tony glanced over, taking note of the fact that although he was still half-hard, Steve hadn't actually started masturbating yet.

Steve was looking at Tony, expecting. Tony stared back. “What?”

Quickly Steve's eyes flickered down to Tony's groin, then back up. “Aren't you going to...?”

It was then that Tony realized he still had the underarmor on, only shucked down to his waist.

Flushing, Tony scrambled off the side of the bed and wormed his way out of the form-fitting material. Not like he'd never gotten off inside it, but it was a bitch to clean and really, it gave him an unfair advantage over Steve. Or rather, _dis_ advantage, if you looked at it in terms of their little game. No way Tony was going to let Steve one-up him. If Steve was naked, Tony was naked.

“Happy?” Tony grumbled as he settled himself back on the bed.

“Sure,” Steve replied with a grin. For a moment, it was like they _weren't_ two guys about to jack off in front of each other. But then Steve's smile dimmed and his gaze flickered down to Tony's groin, then away, and the moment was lost. Tony swallowed past a thick lump of uncertainty and self-loathing and returned his eyes back to the wall-dominating TV.

The women on screen were getting into their roles now. In one of the pairs on the screen, the brunette was already going down on the blonde, expertly if the blonde's moans were anything to go by. She had two fingers sliding in and out of her blonde partner's wet heat, the other hand reaching up to teak at the blonde's nipples.

Eyes staring straight ahead, Tony fumbled with the bottle of lube in his hands. Finally he managed to pop the top open and squeeze some into his hand. It slipped through his fingers, spilling down onto his thighs and comforter, but he didn't dare glance down. He didn't dare look anywhere besides the TV.

Almost carefully Tony took his penis in hand, body jerking at the sudden contact. He was hard: rock hard already. Looked like him and Steve had the same taste in porn, today, judging by how quickly his body was reacting to the women fucking each other on the TV. After a few strokes to get himself nice and wet, Tony set a quick pace. Best to get this over with. Jerk the adrenaline and rush of battle out through his dick and then send Steve on his way as fast as possible. No need to drag it out.

Next to him, a noise: flesh squelching over wet flesh. Steve was jerking himself off.

Tony's body shuddered, stomach spasming. His cock spurted a thick bolt of precome, wrapped up in his palm before it could dribble past the head. The room already smelled like sex.

Tony's eyes had unfocused. He blinked, looking back at the women on the TV. He was obviously tired, crashing even. Had to finish this up quick. Roughly Tony jerked his dick, focusing mostly on the head in an attempt to get himself off faster. He wanted the vibrator, wanted something filling his ass to help him along, but he wasn't about to get it out while Steve was here. He'd probably think it was gay, or worse: want to share. And Tony didn't have two of those. Yet.

Forgetting himself for a moment, Tony grunted with frustration. He wanted to at least jam a couple fingers up his ass, but he didn't want Steve to see that, either. So he just jerked his dick faster and focused intently on the women on the screen. One of them was crying out, orgasming, as her partner relentlessly fucked her with four fingers. It was the blonde, the one orgasming. Tony's cock twitched and he grunted again. He was getting there.

“Alright?”

Tony glanced over at Steve without thinking.

Steve was looking over at him.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

Tony stifled a gasp and struggled to keep the pace of his hand over his dick even. No slowing up, no slowing down. Just. Just looking at Steve, into his blue eyes, ignoring the movement Tony could see out of the corner of his eye further south.

Who was Tony kidding? He could see every inch of Steve's all-American erection being stroked beneath that big hand, even without moving his eyes. If they were sitting closer this wouldn't be a problem. They shouldn't be sitting any closer than this. That would be too gay.

“Alright?” Steve repeated. His hand was still moving. Tony's hand was still moving. _Why was his hand still moving_?! But it wasn't like Tony was going to stop. And Steve couldn't stop. That would end the game. They both had to keep masturbating. Could Tony look away? Should he?

“Yeah,” Tony finally croaked out. He tried for a seductive grin but it felt like his face was deforming itself to try and get there so he dropped it. What sort of face did he make when he had sex with women? He wasn't having sex with Steve. That face wasn't relevant.

Tony stared at Steve, watching his face. He wasn't making much of one, just panting slightly. His lips were red. Especially red. They weren't normally that red, Tony didn't think. Suddenly he couldn't remember how Steve's lips normally looked. But surely they weren't always that... they couldn't always look like they were ready to wrap themselves around a cock. Tony would have noticed that before.

It was probably because they were wet. Steve must have been licking them. Sure enough, as Tony watched, Steve's tongue darted out to lick his lips again, getting them wetter and pinker. Tony's tongue darted out a second later, replicating the gesture. Fucking mirror neurons.

“That's good,” Steve whispered. Tony jolted. His whole body felt like it'd been shocked.

“What's good?” he panted back.

“That you're. Alright.”

“Oh. Right.” Tony's brain obviously wasn't firing on all cylinders at the moment.

After a couple seconds Tony asked: “You?”

“Me?” Steve's brows had that little furrow between them. But it looked so much sweeter, so much more... softly pained, than usual.

Tony blinked, trying hard to refocus himself. Or unfocus himself. He wasn't sure which one he was supposed to be doing just now. Which one was right.

“You okay?”

Steve's eyes slipped closed for a moment, then opened again. He seemed worse off: like he was getting closer to the edge. “Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay.”

“You watch lesbian porn a lot?”

Steve groaned, then.

Tony's brain fried out. He though his head was going to lift straight off his shoulders, it'd gotten so light. Probably because so much of his blood was in his dick, which was dangerously close to coming. Fuck, _fuck_. He didn't want to come at the wrong time. What if he did when Steve was talking? Or when they were looking at each other? Should Tony look away? Close his eyes? Talk? Stay silent?

“Sometimes.”

Tony's cock was sensitive, his balls feeling tighter. Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit. He was going to come. Oh _fuck_ Steve was still talking.

“I don't like it when the men use the women so harshly.”

“Only you,” Tony breathed, and he shut his eyes. He couldn't look at Steve while he was coming. And he was going to, any second, It was building inside him, just on the precipice-

“You okay?”

Tony made the mistake of opening his eyes. Steve was abruptly closer: leaning over into Tony's space, even while his hand kept moving rapidly over his dick.

“'m... _oh_ -”

Tony squeezed his eyes shut against the image of Steve's face, orgasm erupting from him too soon, early and unwanted. Tony shuddered, body shaking as he kept stroking at his dick, trying to draw every drop of cum out of himself before he opened his eyes, before he had to face Steve again.

“Oh,” Steve was saying. And then “ _oh_ ,” and Tony was still coming when he opened his eyes, when he saw Steve's eyes slamming shut as his orgasm hit him like a freight train, body bowing back and forth, cum spurting out of him, spilling over his hand, shooting all over Tony's expensive comforter. A drop or two of it nearly reached Tony. One drop landed so close that the last of Tony's own orgasm dripped down from between Tony's fingers on top of it.

Tony shut his eyes and turned away, trying to delete the memory of Steve's orgasm from his mind. His expression had been _pained_ , had been practically fucking _earnest_.

“Sorry.”

Still turned away from him, Tony just shook his head and reached for the box of tissues. After grabbing a few for himself, he tossed the box over to Steve. Diligently Tony started cleaning off his fingers and his cock, then scrubbed at the comforter as best he could. He'd send it off for dry cleaning in the morning.

He ignored the fact that he'd just cleaned up some of Steve's cum and dropped the tissues over the side of the bed. He'd deal with those in the morning, too.

The room was quiet outside of his and Steve's accelerated breathing. The TV must have turned itself off around the time Tony was coming. He must have accidentally done that.

“Is this how it usually goes?” Steve panted.

Tony had problems. Tony had horrible, horrible problems: desperately fucked-up sensibilities and a horrible, deep-seated need to ruin everything good he ever had in his life. That was the only explanation for what came out of his mouth next. That and the endorphins.

“No.” He grinned and turned to Steve. “Sometimes I like to get the vibrator involved.”

Steve's shocked expression wasn't _worth it_ , but it was satisfying. It went one step towards unknotting the ball of worry and dread that had taken up residence in Tony's chest, at least.

“I thought you never-”

“Yeah, well: you inspired me.”

Their eyes held for a long, long moment. Out of his peripheral vision Tony could see Steve's throat working: first swallowing quickly, then the Adam's apple bobbing up and down like he was trying to speak. There was a thin sheen of sweat there, on his throat. Tony focused on Steve's eyes (like that was any better).

Eventually Steve broke eye contact first, nodding and looking away. “Huh. Maybe I'll get you to show me that, sometime.”

“Maybe I'll let you,” Tony replied, throat dry. He needed a bottle of water. He'd get one as soon as Steve left. If he ever left. Why hadn't he _left_ yet? Did he want to go another round?

Tony forcibly did not look at Steve's groin. _Could_ he go another round? Could he be getting hard again already?

Tony was looking at Steve's face. Not his groin.

“I guess I should...” Steve tossed a thumb over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Tony confirmed. “Good idea.”

He considered settling into bed as Steve got dressed again, but suddenly Tony needed a shower. He didn't usually, after masturbating, but today he did. He wasn't so stupid or lacking in introspection to know why today might be different.

Getting up from the bed, Tony padded over to the bathroom. He glanced over his shoulder at Steve twice, watching the other man get dressed while watching him right back.

“I'm just gonna shower,” Tony explained, though he shouldn't have to explain, he didn't _owe_ Steve a report on his every fucking footstep. “You know the way out.”

Tony shut the door behind him and didn't even fire off a quick “You can join me if you want” teasing remark.

Steve might have taken him up on it.

Turning the water as hot as it would go, Tony stood under the spray and pressed his hands to the smooth tile walls.

 _Fuck_. What the hell had he gotten himself into? What the hell was he going to _do_?

* * *

The next morning Tony found himself drinking coffee and frying himself up an omelette at Avengers Tower. He had absolutely no explanation ready for anyone who might ask why he was there, or any close to legitimate reason for being there. The best answer he had was that he'd gotten into his car this morning, started the engine, and next thing he knew, he was pulling into the garage under the Tower. That was the long and short of it, and Tony wasn't exactly interested in turning an eye toward self-examination this morning. More so even than most mornings.

The first set of footsteps Tony heard behind him weren't Steve's. He could tell. Steve had a distinct way of walking, a very... it was a Steve way of walking, that was the only way Tony could think of to describe it. He just knew how Steve walked. Because it was so distinct.

Tony turned a second to glance over his shoulder, even though he could have just as easily glanced through one of the security cameras in the room and seen who it was without turning. He found most people got irritated whenever he pulled Extremis stuff like that (except Steve. Most of the time).

It was Bucky. Tony huffed and turned back to his omelette.

Which was where he was looking a second later when another set of footsteps followed Bucky's into the kitchen.

And Tony knew those footsteps.

Tony stayed focused on his omelette as Steve entered the room. Carefully he nudged the spatula beneath the nice solid egg base and flipped it over as he listened to Steve's footsteps hesitate just one moment, then resume their usual pace. Tony placed a piece of cheese on one half of the still-frying omelette as he listened to two barstools scrape out from the wet bar in the kitchen, and the rustle of paper as Bucky and Steve settled in for their morning... whatever. Chat. Reminiscing. Old-man talk. Whatever the hell those two got from each other.

As Tony stared down at his nearly-finished omelette, he considered leaving the room with it. But that'd be suspicious to Bucky. He didn't need an earful from “Captain America” about team dynamics or some other such bullshit—especially after the little show he and Steve had put on during their last mission together. No, everything was fine, and Tony wasn't going to act any differently around Steve when Bucky, or anybody else, was around. Not to mention that if he acted funny or started avoiding Steve, then that would essentially mean he lost their game.

With a smile on his face and a lightness to his step he didn't feel in the slightest, Tony folded his omelette in half and transferred it to his plate before heading for the same table as Bucky and Steve. The two men were seated across from each other, so Tony made a point of sitting on one of the sides of the island perpendicular to both of them. That way, it didn't seem like he was avoiding Steve _or_ cozying up to him. Just neutral. Normal.

“Stark,” Bucky grunted over his coffee. “What are you doing here before noon?”

Tony didn't meet Steve's eyes, even though he could feel them boring into his skull. His skin felt on fire, everywhere Steve's gaze landed. Resolutely Tony grabbed at the syrup and pepper on the table, smothering his omelette in them. He looked at Bucky—which made _sense_ , he wasn't avoiding looking at Steve, he was just looking at the guy he was talking to—as he shoveled the first bite of omelette into his mouth.

“Was up.” He shrugged.

“Rough night?” Bucky asked. His eyes flickered to Tony's somewhat sympathetically over his newspaper.

Tony kept his focus on Bucky, even though he was sure to spontaneously combust from the force of Steve's staring.

“Something like that,” he replied noncommittally. He looked back down at his omelette and shoveled another forkful into his mouth. Bucky seemed to get the picture because he grunted his sympathy and went back to reading his newspaper. After a minute or two, even Steve looked away and returned to drinking his coffee and his own half of the newspaper.

Tony had almost finished his breakfast and was going to make a safe break out of there—why had he even taken the elevator upstairs when he found himself in the garage this morning, he would never know—when the newspaper rustled again and Bucky laughed to himself.

“Hey, Stark.” Tony hesitated, but glanced up at Bucky. He was folding the newspaper into a more manageable size and grinning as he did it. “You got a pencil, I can show you something twisted.”

“I've got a pencil,” Steve offered quietly. Tony made the mistake of glancing over at him when he spoke. Their eyes caught over each other's for a moment. Tony's lips parted slightly, though his mind supplied nothing for him to say. At least, nothing for him to say to Steve.

“'Twisted'?” Tony snorted, turning back to Bucky. “Whoever's teaching you slang is the 'twisted' one.”

Bucky frowned, what Tony called his “surly teenager disposition” creeping back in. Steve always reprimanded him for saying that, before snickering covertly along with Tony.

Tony thought he heard Bucky mumble something about “'tasha”, but then he was passing the folded-up newspaper along to Steve, grinning wickedly again.

“I bet you've never seen Steve do this trick.”

Tony frowned, shifting sideways in his seat to try and get a look at the newspaper. The movement brought him closer to Steve, almost close enough that their arms brushed as Steve reached out to take the newspaper from Bucky. But it was a big kitchen island, and Tony was nothing if not stubbornly, bordering on obsessively, in control of himself.

“Sudoku?” Tony asked, forced-casual. Because it was the sudoku puzzle that Bucky had folded up the newspaper to before passing it on to Steve.

“Have you ever seen Steve solve one of these?”

Tony shook his head, a little confused. He glanced at Steve, who was flushing a little bit as he fiddled with the newspaper. He was embarrassed, but suddenly all Tony could think about was how he now knew that flush could spread, could go all the way down to his chest in little red blotches. Tony forced his eyes away and back to Bucky.

“I didn't know Steve liked it.”

“I don't.” Tony glanced over at Steve again, who was frowning down at the sudoku puzzle like it had done something to personally offend him. Then he turned that look on Bucky, which was probably more warranted.

“Watch,” Bucky just said to Tony. Then he turned on his pout, even though his shit-eating grin was still plainly visible just below the surface. “Come on, Rogers. Give us a show.”

Steve flushed harder, head turning down to the newspaper again. “You know I don't like it when people are watching.”

Steve went completely still. Tony was pretty sure he had too. Steve's entire neck was red, now.

“Fine,” Steve snapped, capitulating. “Give me a minute.”

Jerking hard on his stool, Bucky scooted himself closer to Tony before smacking him on the arm. Tony winced and just was glad it wasn't the robot hand.

“Watch this,” Bucky ordered.

Tony wanted to do anything _but_ watch. He'd had his fill of watching Steve for now. But it would be suspicious if he looked away, or even worse tried to make some sort of escape. So he sat with Bucky and watched Steve—watched him bend his head, blonde hair just a little bit longer than it normally was, flopping forward. Watched those strong fingers of his wrap gently around the pencil, fidgeting with it between the digits, rolling it and spinning it and stroking it. He didn't make any move to bring pencil to paper, not yet, just sat and stared at the paper, little strip of wood and graphite dwarfed between his thick fingers but handled expertly.

After maybe two minutes Steve finally set the newspaper down on the counter and brought pencil to paper, scratching in his first number onto the page. And then he kept going. And writing numbers. And didn't stop until the square was filled. He hadn't hesitated, hadn't written a single “maybe” number in place, weighed an option in one square. He just filled in the whole square, seventy digits, in a row. Then he stopped, set his pencil down, and passed the paper over to Bucky.

“You can check it if you want,” he said.

Bucky laughed and pushed the newspaper over to Tony. “You check it with that computer brain of yours. I don't have time for how long it'd take me, this morning.”

Reluctantly Tony picked up the paper, Steve's tidy little scrawl standing out so clearly on the page. He tried to resist glancing up at Steve, but after a morning spent exerting so much self-control, Tony couldn't find it in him. He looked, and met Steve's eyes.

Tony had fucked this up. Oh _fuck_ , Tony had ruined this. He'd ruined everything, again. Nausea churned in his gut, nausea like the last time he went through withdrawal, nausea like he hadn't felt in years. His omelette didn't want to sit in his stomach, heavy and slimy and vile and _too good for him_ , _everything_ was too good for Tony Stark, because the moment he got his hands on anything good and pure and wonderful he corrupted it irrevocably. It was like some horrible stench Tony carried around with him, infecting everyone he met, spilling over from him, leaking out of his pores, enveloping and seeping into those who he was closest to. And now he had infected Steve, had ruined him, had destroyed that one fucking shining sun of goodness and light in his wretched, cave-dwelling existence. He deserved to be a pariah, to be ostracized and sent to live in a sealed bunker far beneath the earth, where he could never do any more harm.

But Tony was greedy, and Tony wanted the sunlight. And that's why he was here, sitting with Steve, even though it was _his fault_ for leading Steve on for so long, even though Steve's only fault had ever been to be stupid enough to fall in love with his straight best friend.

Tony's sin was greed and Steve's was love. It was fucking poetic, was what it was.

He didn't know how to fix this without ruining Steve. He didn't know how to extract the poison which was his toxic stench from Steve without leaving him incomplete, without pitting Steve with holes in his heart and life like swiss cheese.

Tony broke eye contact, heat pricking at his eyes but carefully contained. He didn't think Steve could see it, could notice. Super-soldier senses didn't make Steve a mind reader: Tony knew that well enough first hand. Blinking carefully, Tony concentrated on the sudoku puzzle.

It was right. Fifteen seconds scanning through it, and Tony knew it was right. Of course, he had the advantage of Extremis and a genius brain honed by MIT. Steve was... Steve wasn't stupid. Not by a long shot. Anyone who thought so was usually about ten seconds away from seeing just how wrong they were via a tactical out-maneuvering courtesy Captain Steve Rogers. But Tony never would have thought _this_. He his head jerked up to look at Steve, startled.

“How'd you do this?”

Steve shrugged slowly, his eyes staying trained on Tony even as Bucky smacked Tony's arm again and laughingly said “See?! Told you. _Twisted_.”

“Learn some more modern slang you old man,” Tony muttered. He didn't stop looking at Steve, question clear in his eyes.

Steve didn't smile. He didn't gloat. But he didn't look away, either. “Found out one day. I didn't realize it was meant to be a fun game. It was in the newspaper one day and I solved it, then had to ask Sam what it was for. He told me it wasn't 'for' anything: just a game.”

“But...” Tony frowned and started to lean forward, to touch Steve's shoulder or clasp his hand in his. He aborted the movement before it became more than simply adjusting his position on the stool. “How?”

Steve shook his head. “Suppose it has something to do with tactical thinking. I look at it like lines, moving, swooping lines, like first downs on a football field or advancing trenches. And the eidetic memory helps with the rest, I guess. It...” And then: a glimmer of a smile, on the edges of his lips. Tony's breath caught in his chest and he was leaning forward, drinking the almost-smile in like a dying man, unaware of his subconscious movements. “It feels like my mind's buzzing, moving faster than I can keep up, some of the time when I'm solving them. And then...” he spread his hands out, palms up, in front of him. Tony glanced down at the smooth, broad palms before looking back up into Steve's eyes. “Poof. The number's there. Groups of them, for certain parts.”

“That's amazing,” Tony murmured. Steve's eyes flickered down, faint flush dusting the bridge of his nose and spread lightly over his cheeks, before he glanced back up at Tony.

“Shucks,” he murmured back.

For once in his life, Tony didn't feel any compulsion to rib Steve for his anachronistic speech. He was feeling a lot of other compulsions, ones he couldn't understand or even put a name to, but none of them were to make fun of Steve. It was just. Steve.

“Speaking of Sam.” And just like that, whatever spell had been cast over the little kitchen island was broken. Steve was jumping up from his stool, glancing at his watch even as he collected his coffee mug. “Heading over there now.”

“Say 'hey',” Bucky muttered, face already buried back in his newspaper.

Steve murmured his assent as he rinsed out his mug and loaded it into the dishwasher. When he turned around his eyes met Tony's for just a second, then dropped away. He was gone in the next second, brushing just an inch too close to Tony as he moved out of the kitchen. Tony felt like he'd been punched in the gut, shoulder rolling and body turning to follow Steve like they were opposite ends of a magnet, lips slipping apart as he watched Steve leave the kitchen and head down the hall to the elevator. And then Steve was gone, and Tony was left alone again.

Bucky burped loudly and rustled his newspaper. Tony grabbed his plates and dropped them in the sink, storming off to go about his own day. He had stuff to do. Working on the armor—his and the still unidentified villain's—going to some meetings for Stark Resilient, doing business. Conducting his affairs. Working. These were things he had to do, things with which to occupy his time. Because he was a busy guy, and he couldn't spend all day staring after Steve, fretting over how to fix things (or least-ruin them) like a doddering little housewife.

He took the stairs, not wanting to run into Steve in the garage just in case he was taking his time leaving the property.

* * *

Steve settled down at Sam's kitchen table heavily, only absently thanking him when he handed Steve a piping hot mug of joe. His mind was still elsewhere, still wandering... aw hell, there was no use denying it: his mind was still with Tony, back at the Tower, wondering about what could be going through that puddinghead of his.

“Hello? You in there?”

A fist tapped lightly into his temple and Steve jerked, nearly upending his coffee all over Sam's clean kitchen table. He shook himself out and forced a smile up at Sam.

“Sorry. Mind was elsewhere. What were you saying?”

Sam snorted. “No kidding,” he muttered before tossing himself down heavily into the chair opposite Steve. “You doing okay?”

Steve kept smiling. “Sure am. Just, uh. Worried about Zola.” He nodded firmly.

Sam wasn't buying it, in the slightest. Not if the stony and frankly unimpressed expression he was leveling at Steve was any indicator.

Sighing, Steve sat back in his car, fingers drumming against the warm ceramic of the coffee mug. What exactly was he supposed to do? Ask Sam if he'd ever masturbated while watching porn with one of his male friends? One of his male friends who was possibly in love with him and he didn't want to hurt?

Because that was the worst of it, wasn't it? So what if he and Tony had let this little game of theirs get a smidge out of hand. That was okay. Steve wasn't worried about his sexuality or having any great “freak out” over that. Sometimes things happened, and it didn't mean anything, and that was alright. They were best left forgotten and unspoken of: no great reason to stress over that.

But Tony... Steve was positive now, what they were doing didn't mean nothing to Tony. And that's where the problem lay. Tony was obviously in love with him, or harboring whatever confusing mix of emotions Tony refused to label as “love”. What they were doing obviously meant something to Tony, and Steve... Steve didn't know what to do with that. About that. How to fix it. Most importantly, he didn't know what the right thing to do was. He hated not knowing the right thing to do.

“Do you think Tony loves me?”

“Absolutely,” Sam replied without hesitation.

“Freedom bless it!” Steve cursed.

Then he stopped, mentally reviewed his own words, and flushed.

Sam burst out laughing, while Steve rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. Well. At least it served to ease the tension.

“I mean, do you think he's... he's _in love_ with me?”

“Yes.”

Steve shifted in his seat, distinctly uncomfortable. This wasn't good. This was very nearly the opposite of good.

He glanced up at Sam, trying to explain without really explaining. “Like a partner though, right? Like a... a person you've been to hell and back with. Right?”

Sam sighed and leaned forward in his chair. “Look, Steve: Tony's a hundred percent in love with you. Everyone knows it. Except maybe Tony. But I don't even think he's that dense. He'd do anything for you. _Has done_ everything for you. The lowest points in that guy's life you were either there pulling him out, or he was low because you _couldn't_ be there, because he had to go and disappoint you.”

“Tony doesn't-”

“We _all_ don't want to disappoint you,” Sam interrupted. “Tony just the most.”

Steve wrung his hands together on the table. That made it seem so much worse. So much more dirty. What if Tony was just going through with all this because he didn't want to disappoint Steve? Because he thought this was what Steve wanted and was... was forcing himself, somehow?

Or even worse: what if Tony _did_ want it? But if Steve broke it off, would swallow his hurt and put on a smile, because he didn't want to disappoint Steve? What if this whole time his insistence about not being gay was because he didn't want to disappoint Steve?

“But...” Steve glanced up at Sam again, willing him to understand his question.

He did, thank goodness. Sam sighed again. “As for the man's sexuality, I don't know what to tell you. Everything I've ever seen and ninety-nine percent of what I've heard is that he's straight. But when it comes to you...” Sam frowned. “Unless it's about a big thing, capital-j-Justice or what's capital-r-Right, Tony's not going to fight you. Tony would bend over backwards to avoid disappointing you.” Same grimaced. “Oh, damn, or forwards, maybe, wow, get that visual out of my head right this damn instant because did not need to picture that.”

Steve needed to figure out Tony's sexuality. That was the key to figuring out what the right thing to do was. If Tony was gay but in love... Actually...

“You have a scrap of paper? And a pencil?” Steve asked.

Sam, good guy that he was, just shrugged and pushed himself up from his kitchen table to go find the requested for items. He did sigh pretty heavily, and pretty significantly, but Steve ignored that part. It was just one buddy trying to look out for another. Goodness knew that Steve had done the same time and time again.

When Sam returned with a composition notebook and a pencil, Steve took them with a thank-you and set to work sketching out his idea without another word. Sam flapped a hand and left the room. Steve could hear him rummaging around in his living room, then the distinct clacking of free weights being moved around. That was fine. Sam could do his morning workout while Steve tried to get his head back on straight. He'd already helped Steve out enough.

It was the sudoku puzzle this morning that had given him the idea. Neatly Steve drew a square and split it into four, one vertical line down the center, one horizontal line bisecting it. Above the columns he wrote “G” and “¬G”, and alongside the rows he wrote “I.L.” and “¬I.L.” He sat back and stared down at his handiwork for a moment. So. What would the right thing to do be if Tony was gay, not gay, in love with him, or not in love with him?

The first box was obvious. If Tony was both gay _and_ in love with him, then Steve was doing a terrible thing leading him on. He was toying with Tony's emotions, giving him something he could never _really_ have, and that was wrong. In that scenario, the only morally acceptable thing to do would be to put an end to this game, apologize to Tony, and maybe try to set him up with a nice man to help him move on. Neatly Steve wrote the word “Stop” in the square at the intersection of “G” and “IL”.

If Tony were not gay and in love with him, that was just as easy to see the ethical choice. That would be most like what Sam said: Tony's sexuality was clearly straight, but his feelings about Steve... not so much. But if Tony was really living in constant fear of disappointing Steve (which, given everything that Tony had ever fought Steve on, Steve didn't understand how Sam could think Tony was in _love_ with him, but Sam was a smart guy: Steve could trust his judgement enough to allow for the possibility), then Tony was probably just doing everything because he thought _Steve_ wanted to do it. In which case, Tony was essentially prostituting himself for Steve, doing anything he thought Steve might want, regardless of his own wishes. And that was horribly, horribly wrong.

Steve wrote “Stop” in that box as well. It was one hundred percent the only moral choice for that scenario. Stopping, and then spending the rest of his life trying to make amends to Tony, because that would be an _awful_ thing for Steve to have pressured him into. Steve felt sick to his stomach just thinking about it.

The next square was trickier. This was the scenario under which Tony was gay but _not_ in love with Steve. Frowning down at the paper, Steve tapped the pen against the notebook lightly. If Tony was gay, but not in love with Steve, then... Gay, but _not_ in love with him... Steve huffed irritably. It was just so hard to imagine. Tony had never given any indication thus far that he might be gay. But of course, he could be bisexual, that was a perfectly reasonable possibility in this day and age. Steve knew several bisexual people.

Okay then, so assuming Tony was bisexual. He wouldn't be so put off by what they'd been doing. Not like the last scenario Steve had mulled over. That was more reassuring. And it would explain why Tony had been so good at their game so far: he had an unfair advantage this whole time. But then if he was gay and _not_ in love with Steve...

Well then the jackass had been taking advantage of _Steve._ He'd had the advantage this whole time and never revealed it. He'd been getting to not only rile Steve up, watch how far he could push the straight guy until he broke, but he'd been getting off on it, too. Steve didn't think Tony would be so cruel and callous, not with anyone, much less with Steve, who he cared so much about, but it was still an _option_.

In the case of which, Steve would of course put a stop to their game immediately, because it was unfair and he didn't much like being made a fool of. Put a stop to, and then box Tony's ears for being such a horse's ass. “Stop”, then.

Last square. Not gay, and not in love with him. Quietly Steve considered this scenario. If Tony wasn't in love with him, then there was no pressure for him to please Steve, to do what he wanted, to try not to disappoint him. And if he wasn't gay, then there was no chance he was enjoying this game in any way other than the way it was meant to be enjoyed. Well then. In that scenario their game would be just that: a game. And it meant Steve would have been over thinking this whole thing far too much, and tying his stomach into worried knots over nothing. Certainly wouldn't be the first time. Carefully Steve wrote “¬Stop” in that square.

The results were pretty clear, once the whole thing was filled in. It was three-to-one in favor of stopping. If he bothered to take the time to add in rough guesstimates for probabilities for the different boxes—according to Sam at least, the two boxes in the “In Love” column should be weighted higher than the “Not In Love” column, to name one weight he could factor in—it would probably be even worse.

 

 

Absently Steve started scribbling in some probabilities. If he did it out of an even hundred, and went with what Sam was saying, he could probably lowball the “In Love” vs “Not In Love” rows seventy percent versus thirty percent. Evenly split the bottom columns fifteen percent apiece, since Steve was equally skeptical that Tony wasn't having any problems with their arrangement as he was skeptical that Tony would be so blatantly using him and cheating at their game. Then all that was left was the top two columns.

Even after everything, Steve was pretty sure Tony wasn't gay. He just couldn't be. He couldn't have hid something like that for so long. Steve was one of his closest friends, he'd been there with Tony through thick and thin. He'd been there through Rumiko, Beth, Whitney, Rae, and all the more anonymous women over the years. Tony had never shown any interest in men, never taken a man to his bed, not even as a threesome or orgy. Hell, Steve had been there through the whole Henry thing, listening to Tony laugh it off and grumble good-naturedly about the sordid rumors. But there had definitely never been anything between Tony and Henry, that had been clear. So Steve would weight it fifty percent on the side of “In Love, Not Gay” and twenty percent on the side of “In Love, Gay”. Because although Tony had never done anything with a man before... Steve flushed and shifted in Sam's kitchen chair. Even if Tony had done nothing with a man _before_ , he certainly had _now_.

“ _Sometimes I like to get the vibrator involved.”_

“ _You inspired me.”_

Twenty percent weighting to the “In Love, Gay” box, then.

Humming lightly to himself, Steve's eyes flicked over the numbers. After a moment his face burned. Sixty-seven to three. Roughly. In favor of stopping, of course.

They needed to stop this. _He_ needed to stop this, since Tony clearly wasn't going to. And really, looking at the rough decision tree he had just laid out for himself, there was no reason why Tony _should_ stop this. Steve was the morally culpable one, the one who was far more likely to be taking advantage. He needed to stop this, and stop it sooner rather than later. He had to be the one to put an end to it.

“What's that? Those, uh...” Sam snapped his fingers, trying to remember even as Steve ripped the paper from the notebook and crumpled it in his hand. Sam's face lit up when he finally got it: “Punnetts squares! That's what they were. Haven't seen them since high school.”

Steve shrugged and tucked the paper into his pants' pocket. “Just trying to sort some stuff out.”

“Tony stuff?”

Steve glowered down at the kitchen table. “Stuff,” he repeated noncommittally.

Pushing back his chair, Steve stood and nodded politely at Sam. “Thank you for the coffee. And conversation. I'll-”

“Hey, hey.”

Steve stopped because Sam was asking him to, and it'd be rude to leave Sam's apartment mid-conversation after he'd offer his hospitality. That didn't mean that Steve was happy about having to stay. Just at that moment, Steve wanted nothing more than to leave. More than _anything_. But he stayed.

“Are you freaking out about this Tony thing? I know you said earlier you weren't...” Sam flopped his wrist loosely, “but if you are, or feeling a little more...” he flopped his wrist again, “than you were before, that's cool. You can talk to me about it.”

Now Sam was thinking it, too. Anger flared in his chest, but Steve pushed it down. It wasn't a _bad thing_ to be gay. It was perfectly fine. It was just that he _wasn't_ , and people kept thinking he was. And maybe even _that_ wouldn't be too bad, even if it was false, but if other people were thinking it—without knowing the full details of what he and Tony had been doing together behind closed doors—then Tony would _certainly_ be thinking it. And that was a problem: because it was _hurting_ Tony if he thought he had a chance, if he thought Steve was gay and maybe... maybe.

“I'm not,” Steve confirmed, once he had gotten himself under control. He met Sam's eyes firmly. “I'm not. I'm...” he didn't want to give away too much: his and Tony's private business was their own, no one else's. “I'm concerned about Tony. He's overworking himself again, is all. You know how he is. And it's messing with his head.”

Sam nodded slowly, though he was obviously unconvinced. Steve didn't bother to offer more information. He wouldn't unless Sam really started to interrogate him.

But Sam, good friend that he was, let it drop. “Okay, man. Just know I'm here. I'll sit around and we can braid each other's hair if you need to talk about feelings.”

Steve snorted and raised his eyebrows at Sam's short-cropped hair, like his. Sam noticed the look and laughed with him.

“Or hey: I'll give you cornrows. Show you how Mom used to do it.”

Steve laughed then, although it might have been slightly forced. He was still worried about Tony, and how he was going to deal with the whole situation.

As he extracted himself from Sam's apartment, Steve brought the crumpled-up piece of paper out of his pocket and looked back down at it again. He had to stop this. That was the right thing to do. He just had to figure out the right way to go about it—to let Tony down gently.

Expertly Steve tossed the paper into a trashcan as he left Sam's building and climbed onto his bike down the street. As he gunned the engine he felt the conviction inside him grow. He knew what the right thing to do was, now. Once he had that sorted out, Steve _never_ stopped until he had done it. He just had to figure out the best way for handling it, was all. Maybe grab a bite with Tony, maybe even fork over a few bucks or something, do it nice and lightly, with a smile on his face and constantly reminding Tony that they were still friends. It wasn't like he could allow himself to be guilted into a sexual relationship with Tony. That was insane, even with Steve's usual levels of guilt complex.

The wind rushed over Steve's shoulders as he flew down the street, merging into that New York traffic he knew and loved. For some reason today, however, his brain still felt just as cluttered as the streets in front of him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sudoku scene, I'd like to credit [this post](http://frightfullytreeish.tumblr.com/post/46684897100/tumblr-i-decided-last-night-in-the-great-tumblr) for the idea.


	12. Chapter 11

_Peace offering. Hungry and home tonight? E(^_^)3_

Tony blinked at the text as it came into his brain, then blinked again when he realized Steve was trying to sign off with a helmet-wings emoticon. He would have to test his blood sugar for diabetes later it was so fucking sweet.

Rolling over onto his side on his bed and insincerely considering catching another ten minutes of sleep, Tony composed a reply text.

_Sure. Swing by at 8. In meetings until then. You want the Zola stuff?_

He was referring to the information he'd gotten from the hard drives they'd managed to recover from the Zola warehouse raid a couple weeks ago. Of course, thanks to Steve acting like an overprotective boyfriend in the heat of the moment, Tony hadn't managed to recover anything remotely as interesting as they'd been _hoping_ to gather, but he had a couple bits of information he'd managed to piece together. It wasn't enough, but it was going to have to do for now.

At least it was more new information than Tony had managed to gather on his own mysterious villain in the last month or two. All of his underworld contacts had seemed honestly dried up, out of any useful information to give him. A couple managed to hand off some information about Zola's whereabouts—definitely in Russia, search area slowly narrowing in from the impossibly large possible locations they'd started with months ago—to pass onto Steve, but nothing on this guy pumping out new models of organic armor like Tony did his own suits.

_Only if you've had time to get to it._

Yeah, speaking of that, it was definitely time to levy himself out of bed and get to work. No rest for the wicked and all that. With one last regretful burrow beneath his sheets and fluffy duvet, Tony kicked the blankets back and pushed himself upright. Okay. He was sitting up. Good enough step for now.

 _Already done. Just gotta put it together for you_.

_You're a pal._

Tony sighed and scrubbed his face. Morning stubble scratched roughly beneath his fingers. Right, a pal. A pal who lead one of his best friends on, who fucked with his emotions and didn't have the courage, the fortitude of character to _end it_ when he realized it was going to far. A pal who had started all this in the first place, whose big brain had gotten them into this hopeless situation. A real pal.

_No problem, shnookums. -xoxo_

Pal. Right. Only one of them was a real “pal” in this relationship, and it wasn't the guy stringing along his friend, toying with his emotions, and being too scared to end it. If the shoe was on the other foot, if it was Tony who was in love with Steve and Steve wasn't, and Steve _knew it_ , Steve would have stopped this long ago. He would have had the courage to end things, no matter how much he wanted to save Tony's emotions, because Steve _always_ did the right thing, no matter what. Tony was the coward, the selfish one who didn't want to have to hurt his friend, who didn't want to be the one to do that to him _yet again_.

_Lug. E(^_^)3_

Tony almost shut the WiFi in his brain down before he realized that it would feel like chopping off a limb. Instead he shut the mental conversation window and pushed it as far from his mind as possible without deleting it entirely. He had better things to do today than brood on what a shitty friend he was. Plenty of time for that later; like when Steve came over tonight to feed him and remind him unavoidably of that fact.

* * *

Steve had access to every door in Stark Resilient, so Tony didn't need to open them for him. He still did, especially since he'd spotted Steve loaded down with piles of food the second he'd pulled his bike into the garage beneath the building. When the door of the elevator dinged open before Steve could even knock an elbow into the button on the wall, Steve looked around for the nearest security camera and then smiled and bobbed his head when he found it. Tony smiled morosely back, even though Steve couldn't see him.

The first thing Steve said when he entered Tony's workshop was “You've got a freezer that's safe for food in here, right?”

Reaching over his head to scratch an itch between his shoulder blades with a wrench, Tony shrugged. “Depends what you got. It's not like a hunk of meat you brought down on your way over here, is it?”

The confused and vaguely horrified look on Steve's face was priceless. “Since when do I do something like that?”

Tony shrugged. “Never know.” Itch successfully scratched, Tony pointed the wrench over at a far corner of the lab. “There. But I'm not responsible for anything you want to keep in there for more than a day.”

Steve was smiling as he set the parcels of food down on the one clear spot on Tony's workbench. “Noted. It's just dessert,” he explained, holding up two pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream.

Tony's eyes lit up. Oh! That was good. Then his heart sank and the hopeful, sweet look on Steve's face. Damn it. Any hope Tony'd had of trying to let Steve down tonight were totally moved to the back burner. The guy had brought him _ice cream_ , for fuck's sake. How was he supposed to tell him “By the way, this you-liking-my-cock thing? Not working for me so much,” after that? The answer was he wasn't, and thanks to the ice cream it had slightly less to do with Tony being a coward and more to do with him not wanting to throw all Steve's good will back in his face right that moment.

While Steve was bending over the mini-freezer and finding space for the two pints, Tony jumped up from where he was sitting on the floor. He headed for the piles of delicious-looking food Steve had piled in bags and boxes on his workbench. It smelled _amazing_ , and Tony's stomach started to remind him just how long it had been since he ate. Some protein shake that morning, and another one at lunch. He'd been in meetings the rest of the day, and not the fun kind over dinner or lunch at a nice restaurant downtown.

“What've you got here?” Tony asked as he started rummaging through the food. Italian. Good choice. Looked like some minestrone soup—which okay, Steve was trying to sneak him veggies, but good soup was good soup, so Tony would allow it—and paninis. Tony started unwrapping the paninis to check the contents.

Steve smacked his hand away, done with sorting out the ice cream storage situation apparently, and handed Tony the other panini. “That's mine,” he groused good-naturedly. “And I should be asking that, right? 'What've you got' for me?”

Tony grinned wickedly as he unwrapped the panini—perfect, the provolone cheese was dripping over the sides along with more olive oil than he needed to grease a car engine—and tore into it. “I'll show you mine if you show me yours,” he teased, mouth full of not-even-remotely masticated sandwich.

Steve didn't blush, but it was a close thing judging by the way he ducked his head and his mouth turned down. Tony turned away himself, eyes sliding down to focus intently on his panini, like he needed that much brainpower to get the sandwich into his mouth.

“Yeah, so, hang on, pass me the soup.” Tony made grabby hands for the soup, ripping off the lid the moment Steve passed it to him and dunking the panini viciously in it. He nodded happily as he ate the soggy, veggie-smeared bread. Oh yeah. Definitely the only way to consume vegetables, if he had to. This, or stick them on top of a pizza.

“Alright.” Tony gasped a little for air as he forced down the mouthful of food. He headed over to one of his displays, gesturing with his sandwich over his shoulder that Steve could follow. The display was already lighting up and flipping through to the file Tony had put together for Steve by the time they both got there, spreading out the most interesting bits of information in tidy rows. Tony knew how much Steve appreciated tidy little rows and columns when it came to sorting through information.

“I didn't manage to get much,” Tony reminded him. Judging by the way Steve's jaw ticked, he didn't need reminding of what went down during the mission to collect this data. “But I got _something_.”

The display fluctuated before them, one box of information gaining a yellow highlight around its edges for a moment before moving to the forefront and tripling in size. “Let's start with dessert first, shall we?” Tony joked. “The end result of everything is that I've managed to narrow down where his base of operations is in Russia considerably. You've got five hundred square miles now.”

Steve's eyes lit up. “I can work with that.”

Tony smirked. “Yeah, I figured. But that's not even the best part. I've got some way to narrow that down even more.”

Seemingly without noticing what he was doing, Steve took a half step forward, leaning closer to the displays and, consequently, Tony. Stamping down a flare of resentment at Steve for still harboring this crush, Tony tried to ignore his closeness and continue explaining what minimal amount of information he had managed to gather from Zola's nearly perfectly destroyed files.

“Again, I'm working off incomplete data- no,” Tony cut Steve off as soon as he looked offended and opened his mouth to defend himself yet again, “I'm not accusing you, I just want you to understand that I did my best with what I've got but what I've got is tiny, minuscule, and what I figured out not only isn't much but could be totally wrong since the data I've got is so minimal, okay?”

Steve nodded seriously and clasped his hand to Tony's shoulder. Without his uniform gloves on, Steve's hand felt like it was burning through Tony's thin t-shirt to his skin. Tony glanced down and away, doing his best to not seem too bothered by it. He had to hurt Steve, and soon, but it didn't mean he had to be an asshole. There was a way to do this, if not kindly, less than harshly.

“Whatever you've done is more than enough, Tony. I'm grateful for any information you can give me. Even if you found nothing, I'd be grateful for the fact that you tried.”

“Well, luckily I did more than try.” Tony grinned and pulled up the next window on the display. “So in addition to narrowing down your search area, I narrowed down some methods of search for you guys to run through.”

Steve's brow was drawn low over his eyes as he studied the information, but he was obviously excited about this new lead. “How?”

Several windows flashed up in front of them, four laid out side-by-side. “Okay, remember how we couldn't figure out how he was powering his whole operation? We managed to get facial recognition on some of his general managers, but no beat on what sort of power grid he was running off of. There were no diesel trains, no electric ones underground, really no electricity of any normal kind heading anywhere interesting, right?” Steve nodded.

Tony brought a single window to the forefront of his display with a simple beckoning gesture. He magnified it, even though it just showed a list of line graphs that were probably gibberish to Steve. He knew how Steve liked to see the raw data, even if he trusted Tony to interpret it for him.

“Well, the warehouse computers didn't tell me what kind of energy he _is_ using. However, I managed to glean a couple kinds of energy he _isn't_.” Tony started magnifying the different charts in sequence as he talked. “He's not using AC, he's not using DC. No radiation, gamma, beta, cosmic, whatever. No traces of the sort of energy the cosmic cube gives off.” The graphs all sparkled and fell apart as he eliminated them. A new screen came up, this one with blank graphs. “So we know some kinds of energy he's _not_ using. There's still plenty of other kinds left: he could have built some kinetic/potential energy harness, maybe a gravitron, maybe he's even going old school and figured out a way to grab thermal energy, which would make sense if he was underground.”

“What about oil?” Steve asked. “We know he's in Russia: they've got plenty of it.”

Tony shook his head. “No, see, oil is burned and creates electrical energy. That goes through power lines—it's standard stuff. We checked for that first. Think less 'city power grids' and more 'repulsor tech'. Remember how I explained the difference between the kinds of energy?”

Steve's eyes went wide at that. “What if-”

Tony snorted, already knowing what Steve was thinking. “Yeah right. Trust me, Zola's not using repulsor energy. For one, it's _way_ out of his league, for another, I'd know if _Zola_ of all people had gotten his grubby hands on it. No, it's more likely that it's something a little inefficient but a lot off our radar, like sound energy...” Tony snapped his fingers. “Hey, whatever happened to that claw guy? The one that was sound waves or something?”

“Ulysses Klaw,” Steve supplied. He was always better at keep track of that stuff than Tony. But he was already shaking his head. “Reed's got him imprisoned. I'll send him a message, double-check, but last I heard he's safely tucked away, unable to do anyone any harm.”

Tony shrugged. “Still, Zola might've gotten his hands on _his_ tech. A lot less complicated to reverse engineer, and a lot easier to snatch up since its creator is in jail. Point is, now you've got a nice, finite list of energy signatures to check through. _And_ you've got a smaller search area, so all you have to do is run through each of the types of energy, see which one of them starts showing up red all over your area of Russia, and it should lead you right to your guy.” Tony frowned and poked at the displays. “Unfortunately, I can't do any of these remotely. Otherwise I would have. But I can put you in touch with some guys who have the equipment, then you and your rad Russians can hop on over and start sniffing him out.”

When he turned to face Steve, Tony wasn't expecting the open look of _gratitude_ that he received. Steve practically looked like he was going to tear up. “Tony,” he whispered, eyes darting across all the windows Tony had open on the display. “Tony, this is amazing. This is so much more-”

Uncomfortable, Tony rubbed the back of his neck. He waved a hand absently, negligently. “It's nothing, really. If _someone_ hadn't ripped me away from the drives before I was done, I woulda had his home address, I know it. But, this is what I got.”

Before the movement could even register, Tony found himself being clutched to Steve's chest, enveloped in a breath-defying bear hug. He gasped, tensed up, then forced himself to relax into it. Steve was grateful. Steve was thanking him. There was nothing wrong with this, nothing out of the ordinary.

He needed to break this off sooner rather than later, this thing with Steve. Let him down gently. Because the longer he left it, the worse it was going to be.

“Hey, alright there, big guy,” Tony grunted. He tried patting Steve on the back several times in a most manly fashion. After one more tight squeeze, Steve released him, though he moved his hands to Tony's shoulders and wouldn't stop looking at him.

“This is going to save lives, Tony. You've helped so much on this, and it's not even your problem.”

Tony shrugged, feeling the weight of Steve's hands as he did. “Like you said: it'll save lives. So it's my problem. C'mon, Steve, why do you think I'm in the superhero racket in the first place? If I can do something to help out, to save people, of course I'm gonna do it.”

“But really, Tony: thank you.”

Unable to stand those soulful blue eyes staring into him any longer, Tony shrugged Steve's hands off him and walked away. He snagged up his sandwich and soup as he did so, piling some more into his mouth, even though he'd lost his appetite somewhat since they started talking.

“Tony?”

Oh, great. Suddenly all the gratitude was gone and the kicked-puppy was back. Anger flared up in Tony again: anger at Steve, for making him do this to him. Why did Tony always have to be the bad guy? Why did Steve always get to come off as the virtuously wronged one? Tony gritted his teeth and took a breath before turning around. Steve couldn't help it if he'd developed feelings for Tony. He couldn't help it if he was gay or bisexual or whatever the hell he was. Tony couldn't be mad at him for that. He couldn't. And Steve would handle it like an adult.

Putting on his sweetest, kindest smile, Tony took a step towards a concerned looking Steve. “Listen, Steve-”

“I want to forfeit the game.”

Tony blinked. His mouth was open. Wait, _what_?!

Steve was staring at him with this earnest, sad expression, all sympathy and hand-wringing. _What_? Did... Was Steve forfeiting for _his_ sake? Was Steve still on that, thinking that _Tony_ was the one that needed to be protected?

“Getting too attached?” Tony teased, no real heat in his words. He was still too dumb-struck to feel anything else just yet.

“I...” Steve hesitated.

Steve hesitated.

“ _Are you_?!” Tony croaked. Oh no. Was Steve pulling out because he'd realized his feelings for Tony, because he wanted to make an honest go of it or because it was too difficult for him? Shit, that just made Tony seem like even _more_ of an ass, if Steve had managed to gather up the courage to do what was right before Tony had.

But then Steve was shaking his head and waving his hands in front of him. “No, no!” he insisted. “No. I just...” and then he hesitated _again_ , and he turned his head away, to the right and looking down, and Tony's jaw tightened. Steve was about to lie to him. That fucking _bastard_ , he knew he had no poker face—not for Tony—and he was about to try to _lie_ to him.

“I'm growing uncomfortable and I wanted to say that you win-”

“You're lying.”

Steve's head snapped up, cheeks starting to flush. “I'm not-”

“You _are_ ,” Tony snapped. He took a step forward, jabbing his finger at Steve. His sandwich and soup were long abandoned on another one of his workbenches. “You're about to try to lie to my face, why would you even try, you know you can't-”

“Worked at least once before,” Steve mumbled, and oh, Tony could not believe he would mention _that_.

“You mean that ambush? The one you and your freedom fighters organized? I've seen the tapes-”

“Can we not _do this_ ,” Steve groaned, hand drifting to his temple. As if he ever got a natural headache anymore. “I was just saying I don't think-”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Tony shrugged, mouth downturned in a “what's the problem?” sort of way. “Why do you think we should stop playing? You're too uncomfortable with it?”

“Yes.” Steve bit the word out from between clenched teeth.

“Bullshit.”

“I-”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I...” Steve's eyes went all soft, and he took a half-step forward. Shit. _Shit_ , why did Tony press him on it, now he would have to sit through Steve confessing his feelings for him... “I just don't like seeing you hurt. In any way. Least of all if I'm the one hurting you.”

Tony couldn't believe what he was hearing. He gaped at Steve, mouth working silently before he managed to sputter: “ _You're_ hurting _me_?”

Steve frowned at that, doubt creeping into his expression for the first time. He seemed at a loss for words, so Tony decided he might as well do the talking for the both of them.

“Trust me Steve, if I wanted a man, it wouldn't be you, so don't flatter yourself,” Tony snapped. “Don't you think I could find myself a nice young hardbody with about a thousand times less baggage than you if I really wanted to get my rocks off with someone in possession of a dick?”

When Steve's expression hardened, little lines around his eyes tightening as a first sign of irritation, Tony just pushed the issue. All thoughts of protecting Steve and letting him down easy were forgotten in this storm of rejection. It was supposed to be the other way around: Tony letting Steve down easy because he was hopelessly in love with Tony. Steve wasn't supposed to be letting Tony down because he thought the exact reverse!

“But okay,” he conceded. Annoyance distorted his thoughts as obvious relief flooded Steve's expression. Tony would show him. “Hey, you wanna forfeit, that's fine by me. It's just one more competition against you that I managed to _win_.”

Steve's jaw clenched, but he didn't rise to the bait. That just made Tony angrier: Steve was keeping control of himself because he didn't want to hurt Tony, because he thought Tony was some lovesick little puppy to be coddled. Well. Tony would show him.

“It's a shame, though. I had plans for you, tonight.”

Steve remained silent, eyes darting around like he was looking for an escape. He was probably battling with his impossible politeness, unable to storm out of Tony's house after Tony had invited him over, after Tony had done all that work and research for him and helped him out so much. Well, Tony felt no moral compunctions against using Steve's impossible politeness against him, today. Not after he'd insulted Tony the way he had, had condescended to him like this.

“Not going to ask? I already told you about them, last time. Do you remember?”

A pause. A long pause. Tony was holding his breath, though he didn't realize it until the pause dragged on for twenty, thirty seconds.

“I seem to recall some mention of a vibrator.”

All the breath Tony had been holding escaped from his lungs in a rush. He felt lightheaded. Steve was staring resolutely at him, thoughts entirely indiscernible in those flinty blue eyes. Tony had rarely seen him like this: totally closed off, totally unreadable. He thought maybe it was for the best, right now. Tony was about to do something bad, something shameful, but he didn't really care. This would show Steve. Once and for all. After this, if Steve really had no feelings for him, it'd be obvious, and they could end this stupid fucking game. If he did, then Tony could do the right thing and let him down easy, like he planned.

But he wasn't about to be gently dumped by Steve fucking Rogers when he wasn't even _gay_ for the guy. Tony wasn't going to stand for that bullshit.

“That's right,” Tony murmured. He took a defiant step toward Steve, moving into his personal space. They weren't touching, not quite, but it'd probably take an electron microscope to spot the air between their bodies.

“I've been practicing my technique. I was going to show you how good I've gotten at it. How well I can fuck myself with it. I was hoping you could give me some pointers, since you were the more experienced one with that sort of thing.”

“It was once,” Steve reminded him. But his eyes had gone faintly feral. Tony shivered. This was a dangerous game, he was playing. More dangerous every day, not to mention cruel. And yet he kept playing.

“Still. Second pair of eyes is always handy, right? You mind?”

“I-”

“Is that a problem for you?” Tony pressed him. “If you have a problem with it, if you're uncomfortable, that's fine. I'd understand.”

Steve didn't back down. Tony grinned wickedly. He knew he wouldn't. Still, he pushed it even more:

“You just have to say the words. That _you're_ uncomfortable with it. That _you_ don't want this to continue anymore. That _you're_ forfeiting because _you_ can't take it any further.” Tony punctuated every “you” by going up to his toes, bringing himself eye level with Steve.

Steve said nothing.

Tony turned around, walking out of his workshop. His stomach flipped sickeningly, brain humming with tension and fear. Bowie's “Fashion” started playing on a loop in his head. He felt completely out of control of everything in his life in just that second. Somehow it always seemed that Steve was the one that could do that to him.

When he reached the glass door, Tony paused for a moment, turning his head slightly back at Steve. “I wouldn't guess you to be the type to pass up a learning experience.”

He felt more than heard Steve's footsteps across the lab, stalking toward him. Tony stayed where he was, head not turned enough to see Steve, just flickers of movement out of his peripheral. His body thrummed, every nerve flared and open and waiting, _waiting_ , for... something.

Heat swelled against Tony's back as Steve settled in close—still not touching, still with that atom's breadth of air between them. Tony stood still and forced his heart to keep beating, his lungs to keep breathing.

Steve's breath was hot against Tony's temple. “Don't know if you can call it that, but I'd never pass up the chance to observe your technique.” A pause, and Tony could feel Steve shifting closer, somehow still without touching him. “And correct it, if need be.”

Tony's mouth went completely dry. He couldn't think of a witty rejoinder for that, so he settled for opening the door in front of him with Extremis and stalking out. He heard Steve follow him a moment later.

When they reached Tony's room (still without touching, and it was starting to drive Tony _insane_. They touched. They were very tactile guys, the two of them. An evening not touching Steve, when he was _right there_ , felt like an eternity), Tony immediately started shucking his clothes, tossing them left and right as he avoided looking at Steve.

“This'll probably be a different kind of show than you're used to,” Tony cautioned as he ripped his shirt off one-handed. He glanced at Steve, who wasn't moving to get undressed at all. Tony winked. “You see, my vibrator is powered by these things called 'batteries', not steam.”

Steve snorted and crossed his arms, not making a move toward the bed. “Surprised it doesn't run on repulsor energy.”

Tony very maturely stuck out his tongue at Steve. Then he almost tripped over his own feet as he tugged his jeans off. Shit. Sitting down heavily on the bed, Tony finished pulling them off and only then glanced back at Steve. He was still just standing there, crossed-armed, staring at him.

Fine. Whatever. If Tony got more into this, if Tony did all the work, that just meant that he got more points for tonight than Steve.

And of course, if Steve really did have feelings for Tony, better that he stay away, that he kept himself distant and plenty of space between them. It'd be easier, in the end. Tony was grateful for the distance, not for his own competitive sake, but for the sake of Steve's feelings, whether he admitted to them or not.

Ripping his socks off last, Tony turned himself over on the bed and started crawling up it. He was horribly aware of how blatantly he was presenting himself to Steve, at the sort of show he must be giving the other man at that moment. The last time they might have been naked, sure, but they were seated on Tony's bed together, almost modest in their immodesty. Now Tony had his legs spread, his ass muscles sliding over one each other and spreading, showing Steve his asshole like he was waiting for him to mount him. Tony shivered and ignored the way his stomach tingled, his groin started to come to life, his penis swung heavier and heavier between his legs. It wasn't unwelcome. He needed to get erect to put on the show he promised for Steve, and it wasn't looking like he was going to get the help that porn offered, this evening.

Reaching into his bedside drawer, Tony pulled out the vibrator and lube, tossing them on the bed. Then he reached for his pillows, settling them in the configuration he liked for sessions such as these. He settled two where his head would go, then three for his chest. Then he lowered himself down onto them, on his knees, ass presented backwards at Steve.

Tony peered over his shoulder to see how Steve was doing with all this. He was still standing in the same place, but his face was slowly growing more flushed. And Tony couldn't be certain with those pleated slacks Steve was wearing ( _seriously_ ), but he thought he saw the beginnings of at least a half-chub in there.

Well. Nothing to do but get started. Tony smirked winningly at Steve, lowering his eyelids and the lights in the same thought. Steve didn't even flinch. “Feel free to come closer if you need a better look. Or pull up a chair, get comfortable.”

Steve didn't move. “Can see plenty well from here. Super-soldier.”

Tony snorted. As if he needed reminding.

Taking a breath, Tony reached for the lube first. It was a new warming lubricant he had bought on a whim when he was researching new vibrators. Steve had been right, earlier: Tony _had_ been considering building one himself, but he felt like such a project warranted more current-market research—seeing what was out there, how they were designed, what variations there were,  &c. Tony might know weapons, but he was willing to grant that the sex toy business probably knew vibrators a hundred times better than Tony did.

Focus. Tony had to focus, and pretend like Steve wasn't in the room. Pretend like he was giving a show to some beautiful blonde woman. Amazonian. Big and buxom and blonde and with fantastic tits. Tony reached down with a lube-coated hand and wrapped it around his dick. Yeah. That was working for him. Blonde with blue eyes and a chest that went on for miles. Tony sighed and settled his shoulders and chest against the pillows, hand moving quickly and smoothly between his legs. He could practically forget Steve was there, and just enjoy a nice, solid jerk off session.

Once he'd achieved a nice, fat erection, Tony squeezed some more lube into his hand and reached behind him. A small gasp, and not from him. Tony looked back again to see Steve leaning closer, hands drifting down to his sides. He was definitely sporting an erection, now. It was tenting the front of his pants.

“Like what you see?” Tony purred. Reaching behind him with his other hand, Tony spread his ass cheeks as best he could one-handed. He pressed his slick fingertips against his asshole, rubbing and circling the rim lightly. Fuck, it felt better than usual, his every nerve-ending hyperaware, drinking up every subtle caress of his fingertips, every little bite of his nails, every breath of cool air that touched that hidden skin. Sweat pricked at Tony's temples, even though the room wasn't slightly warm. He always had been a bit of an exhibitionist, he supposed.

Steve actually looked like he was starting to nod, before he stopped himself and re-crossed his shoulders. Sullenly he replied “Haven't seen anything yet. You said something about a skill with a vibrator?”

Tony groaned a little for show, slipping a finger in as he made the noise. He kept one eye slitted open to watch Steve's expression. Tony didn't think he'd ever seen him so intensely focused.

“This is all part of it,” Tony purred, working the finger inside himself. Fuck, he wasn't going to be able to touch his cock again for the rest of the night without coming like a firehose. He was already achingly aroused, body thrumming with sensation. A single finger inside him and his ass was already hungry for more, feeling like a gaping maw asking for fuller, better, tighter. Quickly Tony inserted another finger, hips pressing back. He groaned for real this time, eyes slipping shut as he focused on fucking himself with the two digits, dragging them across his slick inner walls.

After a moment he slipped the fingers out to apply some more lube. He heard a gentle sound from the other side of the room. Eyes snapping open, Tony only caught the faintest flutter of movement from Steve before he was back in his stoic position. Tony resolved to keep his eyes open for the rest of the evening. He wasn't about to miss catching Steve in the act. “You remember how this feels?” Tony asked. “Probably different, with a man's fingers. Thicker. Better.”

Steve swallowed visibly, even from across the room. “Your fingers have always been more slender,” he pointed out.

Moaning lewdly, Tony pressed his fingers back inside and fucked himself sensually with them. “Still thicker than a woman's,” he replied. “And when I add a third...” he did, slipping his ring finger in alongside his index and middle. Gasping loudly, Tony let his mouth hang open as he _spread_ his fingers, giving Steve a good look at his asshole. Tony wondered what it looked like. Probably dark, like his nipples. He'd never really taken a careful look inside an asshole, even with the women he'd fucked that way. Now he was wondering how Steve was seeing him, how Steve would look if he was in his position.

“But even with three it's not enough,” Tony pointed out. He rolled his hips backwards, over and over, fucking himself on his fingers. “Not thick enough. Not full enough. But this...” He reached over for the vibrator, propping himself up on his elbows as he coated it with lube. He didn't flick it on, not yet. Better to tease Steve this way, start out slow and build; better for Tony, who wasn't sure he'd be able to keep himself from coming long enough to flick the little toy on, with how aroused he was. He was ready to explode any second, now, with Steve's eyes boring into his, tracing lines over his body, drilling into his asshole just as well and never as good as his body might.

When he slipped the vibrator inside him, Tony's eyes slipped closed against his will. Fuck, _fuck_ , he wasn't going to- Tony grabbed the base of his erection with his left hand. Fuck, he was leaking all over, precome dribbling down his cock in a near-constant stream. Tony panted, waiting, feeling himself so close to the edge but refusing to tip over. He had to give Steve a show. _Fuck_. Another spurt of precome shot out of his dick, and Tony squeezed the base harder. Five minutes. He needed to get five minutes out of this, to drive Steve crazy.

Angling the device all wrong, Tony slowly started to move it in and out of himself. He didn't want it to feel good, at this point: couldn't _let_ it feel good. If it felt even the slightest bit pleasurable, if he rubbed a piece of tissue that even indirectly pressed against his prostate, he was done for. His entire rectum was one long erogenous zone now, the whole of the front and back of his hips, _everything_ there felt hyper sensitive and ready to be fucked into submission.

He heard something, as he was fucking himself sloppily with the vibrator. A soft movement, repetitive and constant, coming from the other side of the room. Tony knew that sound. He didn't even bother opening his eyes, since that sound was confirmation enough. And he didn't need any more erotic visions filling his mind right now, didn't think he could take it without blowing his load. Even the sight of his male friend masturbating would be an “erotic” sight with how keyed up he was right now, Tony was sure of it.

“Are you masturbating?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

The soft, repetitive sound from the other side of the room didn't stop. “Do you expect me not to?”

“Thought guys didn't do it for you, Rogers.”

“Vibrators in asses do.”

“In case you missed it, I'm not exactly a woman.”

“From this position you could be, as long as I don't look too hard. And I've been tuning out your voice.”

“No change there, then.”

“No. No change there.”

Somehow, the little exchange helped calm Tony, help steady him. He had his arousal back under control: enough to put on a show, at least. Opening his eyes, he took in the sight of Steve with just his pants open, hand shoved inside and stroking the thick, long length extending out from the fabric. Tony's eyes locked onto the sight, drinking in his fill. He hadn't gotten a good look the last time, hadn't let himself. But since Steve was getting to see so much of Tony tonight, it was only fair that Tony get his share of looking in.

“Haven't even gotten to the good part,” Tony pointed out. Then, with an exaggerated flick of his thumb, Tony turned the vibrator on.

He'd been careful to keep it angled away from any truly sensitive areas, but Tony's back still bowed and body shuddered as the vibrations swept through him. He moaned and pressed his cheek hard against the pillows, mouth open wide as he cried out and rubbed his face against there. His eyes were shut, body barely hanging onto the last shreds of self control. He couldn't go off yet. He had to give Steve a show.

“You hear that?” he panted. “Super-soldier hearing can hear it, can't you? You can hear every vibration, you can probably hear it moving the tissue inside me, pressing against my inner flesh, moving my insides. Can you hear the sound of the lube inside me, keeping me wet? The slide of this piece of plastic inside me? Can you hear the semen in my dick, Steve? It's ready to go; I'll go off any minute. How much can you see from all the way over there? Can you see inside of me? Can you see my asshole, clenching around my toy? It just sucks it in, doesn't it, fucking _greedy_ asshole wants everything inside of it. Wants to get fucked hard. What do you think, Steve? What do you see? What do you hear?”

“Your angle is off,” Steve grunted.

He sounded _wrecked_. Tony's eyes shot open, seeking out Steve's. He _looked_ wrecked. Sweat was dripping down from his temples and beading on his upper lip, his mouth open and panting pinkly as he watched Tony. His whole face and neck was flush, and Tony knew if he opened that stupid button-down Steve was wearing he'd be able to see even more of that blotchy redness spread across Steve's chest. His hand was flying over his dick, the unmistakable sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the room.

Tony groaned and angled the vibrator differently, but still not right. If he angled it right he'd go off. Instead he was trying to keep drifting around his most sensitive areas, for as long as Steve would let him, and as long as he could hold off. It was horrible, bringing the entire interior of his ass into a state of hypersensitive arousal, but it was a wonderful horrible, so Tony figured he could stand it a few minutes more.

“Better?”

“No.”

Tony laughed, though it came out more like a choked moan.

“You're just jealous,” he cooed. “You're jealous of this little piece of plastic, aren't you? You've always been a luddite, so I bet this is driving you crazy, isn't it?”

“If you were doing it right you wouldn't be able to say the word 'luddite',” Steve pointed out.

“I bet you think you could 'do me right', don't you, big guy?”

He waited for a response from Steve, teasingly moving the vibrator inside him, barely even thrusting it, just twisting it around. He was still careful to avoid any areas inside of him that would set him off.

“I would.”

Tony grunted and pressed his face into the pillow. Fuck fuck _fuck_. His hips thrust forward, than back, and he teetered on the edge for a long moment. He stilled the vibrator inside him, not turning it off but not moving it. Barely he managed to hang on, teeth clenched against the desire to come. A few more minutes. Two more.

“Wh- What-” Tony groaned, teeth clenched. He couldn't get a sentence out. He could barely get a word out. He wanted to come, he was going to come, he was amazed he wasn't coming already. It practically _felt_ like he was orgasming, but he wasn't, he was holding on.

“You're doing it wrong,” was all the warning Tony got before he felt Steve climb up with him on the bed.

The noise Tony made was undeniably a sob as Steve slapped his hand away from the vibrator and replaced it with his own. The angle changed and a shudder went through Tony's body, practically an electrical current running from his ass and spreading out in impossible waves of pleasure. He sobbed into the pillow again, hands clutching uselessly at the bedsheets, ass helplessly at the mercy of Steve's. And Steve was _merciless_.

He started fucking Tony with the vibrator immediately, driving it home with every smooth thrust. It wasn't punishing, wasn't too hard or rough, but it was insistent, and constant, like Romans at siege. Tony's asshole clenched, his body bent back, his ass presenting like a gift to Steve, begging Steve with every bit of his body excepting his mouth to fuck him, fuck him hard.

And then, in the midst of it all, Tony felt Steve's free hand touch down on his hip, holding him gently in place.

Tony came like a rocket, like a fucking antimatter engine. He wasn't sure what sound he made when he came but he was sure only of the fact that it was embarrassing, loud, and extensive. Cum spurted from his dick in buckets, spilling all over the sheets and his chest and the pillows. Tony's body shook, asshole clenching hard around the vibrator that Steve was still holding onto, still pressing inside of him like he was trying to wring every last drop of cum from Tony's body, like he was trying to milk his prostate. Tony trembled, and trembled, and thought he couldn't stop coming, that his body would never let this moment end, with Steve's hand on his hip and vibrator in his ass.

As he came down Tony heard the distinct sound of flesh slapping against flesh again. Steve was jerking off behind him. Tony wanted to tense, wanted to run away, wanted to curl up in a ball in his luxury shower and hide, but he couldn't move. Steve's left hand was still on his hip. Tony jerked and moved forward, but it came off more like he was rubbing lazily against his pillows.

Steve came with a grunt and a rush of air from between his teeth. Tony thought maybe he felt a drop of moisture on his thighs, but he wasn't sure. He told himself he hadn't felt it, or that at worse it was Steve's sweat.

Steve's hand dropped from his hip and Tony moved away, crawled away up to the safety of his headboard.

“I guess that was how to do it right?” Tony bit out.

From down at the foot of the bed, Steve blinked up at him like a particularly slow-witted dog. Tony grumbled and shoved himself further against his headboard.

Then Steve smirked at him, and Tony knew he'd not only lost the battle: he'd lost the war. “You shouldn't have to resort to some stupid piece of plastic when you could have the real thing inside of you.”

“You think you can fuck me better.”

“I know I can.”

Tony grunted noncommittally, looking away.

“The info I got for you on Zola, I'm emailing it to you right now.” He blinked slowly, making sure that Steve understood he meant with Extremis. “Let me know if you need anything else. Or find the bastard.”

Good soldier that he was, Steve seemed to know a dismissal when he heard it. Levering himself up from Tony's bed, Steve glanced down at his groin as he began to put himself to rights. “Could you,” he nodded at the tissue box on the nightstand.

Tony crawled over to it and threw it at Steve. He didn't mean to throw as viciously as he did, but it wasn't like Steve was going to get hurt from a box of tissues. Steve didn't seem to notice: just set about wiping cum off his hand and patting down his penis before tucking the mostly-flaccid length back into his pants and zipping them up. Tony made a note of how it wasn't yet fully soft. Steve probably could go multiple times in one session.

The minute the door clicked shut behind Steve, Tony took the still-wet vibrator and threw it in the trash. A bitter taste in his mouth, Tony crawled back into bed and curled up under the covers, tugging pillow after pillow back into position at the headboard. He rolled over on his side and stared at the far wall of the room. How had he managed to fuck this up so bad?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr artist [shaliara](http://shaliara.tumblr.com/) did an AMAZING illustration of the "your angle is off" scene. NSFW art on her tumblr [here](http://shaliara.tumblr.com/post/74327009042/your-angle-is-off-steve-grunted-america-isnt). 
> 
> [See this post](http://everybodyilovedies.tumblr.com/post/54438207606/bonus-content-if-you-want-to-see-the-basic-layout) for little sketched layouts of Steve and Tony's apartments (and a crude sketch of an erect Steve watching Tony pleasure himself).


	13. Chapter 12

 

Knocking on the door sounded loud and clear through the apartment while Steve was standing in front of his kitchen sink, staring out the little window above it. The city was shimmering with lights, a thousand little points of happiness keeping the darkness at bay. Normally the sight exhilarated him, made him proud to be a part of this city and species that kept the lights on, night after night, against the seemingly inevitable pull of darkness. Tonight, it just reminded Steve that his apartment was dark, not adding to the sea of lights. Because the sun had set hours ago and Steve had just been standing here, thinking of morality punnetts squares and what it meant to do the right thing.

The banging started up again, longer this time. Sighing to himself, Steve pushed away from the sink and started toward the door. This was a mistake. A huge, terrible mistake. But it was also the right thing to do. He might not have been doing the right thing all this time, but now he knew, and now he couldn't _not_ do the right thing. Not now that he knew what it was. He couldn't fail to act morally a second time. Couldn't let his flesh be weaker than his spirit. It went against everything he had ever stood for, even pre-serum.

Flicking the lights on as he crossed the room, Steve steeled himself. They were going to have a talk, a normal talk, just like they always had. Steve was going to offer him information as a peace offering, then break the decision to him gently. And that would be it. Steve would send him on his way, and it would hurt, but he'd get over it.

Steve's hand was already wrapped around the doorknob when he realized he wasn't sure which “he” would be hurt, would need to “get over it.” Steve opened the door before he could think about it more.

“Couldn't wait to see me again, could you?” Tony teased. He was filling the doorway, harsh little smirk looking out of place beneath eyes that looked too tired.

Carefully Steve stepped back into his apartment, trying his best to strike the balance between friendly and welcoming and not _too_ inviting.

“I've just got some stuff I thought you might want to see,” Steve explained. He headed for his kitchen table—a better place than the couch, since they would be seated in different chairs and have some necessary distance between them. There were a couple documents spread out there, print-outs of information Tony had shared with him over the course of the last few months.

He thought he heard Tony murmur something like “got something _you'd_ like to see,” as they headed to the table together, but Steve ignored it. He had a plan. Had a whole conversation worked out. He wasn't about to let Tony's lewdness or fixation on him derail that. Steve seated himself at the kitchen table and started spreading out the information, not waiting for Tony to seat himself. He did, one pointed pout later.

“You know how your villain keeps making different iterations of organic armor? And it all seems oddly close to your tech, even though it's not?” Steve asked. Tony shrugged and started thumbing through the files, a faint frown on his face. He was probably irritated that he had to manually read the information, rather than just have it in his head.

“Bucky and me, we think it might have something to do with Extremis.”

“What the fuck would Bucky know.”

Steve narrowed his eyes at Tony. He had already tossed the papers back down on the table and was staring defiantly at Steve.

“It's just a fresh set of eyes,” Steve pointed out.

“Is that what they're calling 'ignorant' now? 'Fresh'?”

Steve's jaw clenched. “Is this what gratitude looks like now? Condescension?”

Tony rolled his eyes and started walking his fingertips across the table. “I just don't know why you'd talk to _him_ about this. What the hell does he know about reupulsor tech or mechanical engineering?”

“He's my friend and I was spitballing ways to help you. Would you mind not being a smart ass for two minutes and just listen to what we came up with?”

Tony huffed and glanced away for a moment. But finally he turned back to Steve and shrugged. “Two minutes,” he conceded.

“Thank you,” Steve muttered under his breath. Normally, he said: “You said that every iteration of the suits is more organic, but still based in repulsor-tech. Well, the only thing we know like that right now is _you_ , Tony. You're organic, and you and your suit run off repulsor energy.”

Tony shrugged nonchalantly, though at least he seemed to be listening now.

“So what?” he asked. “We already knew whoever this is, he's trying to reverse engineer my tech, or replicate it, or something.”

“Except for the organic part,” Steve pointed out.

“Yeah, well, that's just his own twist on it. A way to make it self-repairing and more hive-minded. He gets a lot of advantages from organic armors. Remember how I couldn't let you take them down individually when they were coming after Stark Resilient? That right there is one of the advantages to how he has them set up now.”

“I think it's more than that,” Steve pressed. He tactfully left Bucky's name out of it, having learned fast. It was possible that Tony's nascent feelings for Steve were making him jealous of his and Bucky's close friendship. Steve wouldn't mention him again if it helped this evening go more smoothly.

“Why?”

Steve leaned forward, reaching for some of the pieces of paper scattered around the tabletop and putting them in some semblance of order. “Look at the attacks. They've never been directed at a specific target. We've just assumed they were. But a bank? Collateral damage? Stark Resilient? Midtown?”

“They're just tests.” Tony leaned forward far enough to rummage through the papers with Steve, read them. “After the last one, we can be sure they're tests. They tried to yank control of Extremis from me—probably because this guy can't get his hands on the formula himself—and run it on his armors. He's reverse-engineering these things from incomplete data, doing the whole organic thing because apparently he's got a boner for it, and every stage we've seen them at it's just another test, trying to work out the kinks.”

Steve frowned down at the data. No, there was more going on here. More than just a little test for figuring out if the arm on the robot worked right. He could do that in a lab, in a controlled setting, without ever cluing the Avengers in on his existence. If he was doing this, putting them out there where the Avengers would converge, there was a reason for it. Steve just wasn't sure what it was, yet.

“Is that why you asked me over here?”

Steve's head jerked up from where it was bent over the documents, trying to puzzle them out, to see Tony looking hopefully down at him. “What?”

“To tell me the armors check out and I can have them to tinker with?”

Steve frowned. The armors that had managed to wrest control of Extremis away from Tony were still locked away in a SHIELD lab, undergo intense study to make sure they wouldn't have any tricks or trojan horses up their metal sleeves when he turned them over to Tony. He wasn't about to let his friend become mind-controlled via some evil robot armor. Steve had dealt with enough mind-controlled friends for a lifetime.

“No. They're still-”

“Damn it, Steve. Then why am I even here?”

Steve blinked under the ferocity of Tony's words. He was glaring at him from across the table, crinkling the papers that Steve had so carefully prepared under his fists.

“I just thought-”

“Bullshit,” Tony growled. Then his eyes turned sly, vicious. “You can't stop thinking about it, can you?”

It was clear what Tony was talking about. Steve didn't have to ask.

“No,” Steve said. Tony's smile grew. “No, wait. No, yes. Yes I can stop, no I'm not thinking about it.”

“You are,” Tony countered. Carelessly he swept his hands through the papers on the table between them. “Why else would you call me over here for so little.”

“I put work into those, you could at least-”

“-be grateful?” Tony finished for him. He stood up, and Steve did too, not sure he liked where this was going. “Do you want me to show how grateful I am, Steve? Want me to get on my knees and show my gratitude?”

Steve stepped back, toward the common living space. He already knew where this was going. Wasn't sure if he didn't _want_ to to end up there. He was getting hard already, thinking about that last time. Thinking about Tony spread out for him, the way his body broke apart as soon as he inserted that stupid little toy in his ass. The way Tony fell, gasping and shouting, the second Steve put his skin on his. Would he do the same without the toy? Would he fall apart in Steve's arms?

“Do you want to live up to your words from the last time, Steve? Want to show me how much better you can be?”

“I don't know if we can-”

“I know you have lube,” Tony growled, stalking Steve toward his bedroom. “I could hear it on the phone, hear the sound of it as you jerked yourself off.”

“I don't know if I have condoms,” Steve pointed out, even though it was a lie. A box of condoms was sitting in his nightstand drawer, next to the lube. They might be a little old, but not old enough to be expired just yet.

Tony snorted, looking incredulous. He kept moving Steve backwards, pushing him through the threshold of his bedroom without touching him once. Steve let himself be walked toward his bed, backs of his knees hitting the mattress a few steps into his bedroom. He sat down heavily on it, watching Tony watch him. Tony's eyes were heavy-lidded, eyelashes flickering as he studied Steve.

“Fuck condoms,” Tony growled. He started to move forward, to manhandle Steve, but Steve stopped him with a single hand to his chest.

“Proper condom use is important,” he countered.

Tony laughed, shaking his head disbelievingly. “You've got to be kidding me,” he snapped. “You're a super-soldier. You're immune to anything I could ever give you—which, by the way, I'm clean. And you're not giving anything to me.”

Steve's jaw tightened. Tony Stark: always thinking he knew best, always thinking those around him were idiots. Steve was _aware_ of how his body reacted to infectious disease. He was also aware that Tony was clean. That wasn't why he was telling Tony that they'd be using condoms.

Truth was, Steve found the act of sex without condoms to be almost unbearably intimate. He remembered his first time without a condom far more clearly than he did his first time overall having sex. It had been incredible, had been wonderful, and very, very special. Steve wasn't ready for that kind of emotional baggage with Tony. Not now, and not ever. This was just part of some game, some power play, and Steve wasn't about to let his emotional state be compromised for that. He wasn't about to let Tony worm his way under his skin for one stupid night (any more than he already had, at least).

In addition to that, Steve wasn't sure if it was the same with Tony, but he _knew_ Tony had feelings for him. A hundred percent certain. A guy didn't come jumping when his friend called, didn't come apart the minute his friend touched him, and not have feelings for him. And every time Steve tried to break things off Tony ended up hurting, ended up lashing out in anger and fear to cover that hurt. If there was a chance going bareback affected Tony the same as it did Steve, Steve wasn't going to hurt Tony anymore than he already was. He was going to keep this as clinical and unfeeling as possible. Maybe that way they could finally end this, and he could leave Tony with the minimum amount of wounds to lick.

“I know we're not going to give each other venereal diseases.” Steve ignored the way Tony teasingly mouthed 'venereal diseases' back at him, raised eyebrows and all. “I never last long with... with anal,” Steve offered, instead of any of the reasons knocking around his head. “Condoms help.”

Tony raised his eyebrows before dropping himself down into Steve's lap. Steve's hands automatically went up to hold at Tony's waist. Their faces were inches from each other. Steve shivered, thumbs stroking gently at Tony's sides.

“Who said anything about you topping?”

In one smooth movement Steve stood up, taking Tony with him. A sick sort of dread curled tight in his stomach, but he pushed it down. And after that things started moving too quickly for his emotions to really get in the way.

He tossed Tony down to his bed with ease, one hand pinning him down while the right went for Tony's jeans, tearing the open easily. Tony seemed shocked for a second, but soon got in on the action, dexterous hands fumbling down to Steve's own khaki pants to help remove them. After a moment of fumbling both men turned their attention to their own pants: Steve tugging his off and kicking them off his bed quickly, Tony squirming out of his and then doing the same. Steve's shirt came off in one smooth motion, before he helped tug Tony's off in turn.

Tony was laid out bare beneath him, and suddenly Steve felt like a helpless virgin again, Peggy guiding him through lovemaking in he back of a bombed-out French resistance building. He shook off the feeling determinedly, focusing on the man beneath him. Tony Stark, whose mouth was grinning defiantly up at him, whose eyes were narrowed in challenge, but whose body was trembling tellingly.

Briefly Steve considered stopping, or slowing down. Doing something to comfort Tony, or try to ask him again if he wanted this, why he was doing this. If he was doing it for Steve, all for Steve, always for Steve, or if this was something he actually wanted. But then Tony was rolling his hips jerkily beneath Steve and sneering a challenge.

“We gonna stare into each other's eyes all night or are you going to try and fuck me, Steve?”

Jaw set, Steve grabbed Tony and manhandled him onto his stomach. Tony scrambled at the sheets, struggling away but then moving back, helping Steve out, at the same time. Steve held him down with one hand on the back of his neck, while at the same time climbing up the bed to grab the lube and condoms from his bedside table drawer. Tony squirmed beneath him, but he wasn't complaining, wasn't trying to get away, so Steve ignored him.

He tossed the condom down onto the bed and opened the lube as he settled himself back behind Tony. “Grab the pillows,” he ordered as he poured the lube onto his fingers. He knew the basics of what he was supposed to do. Had it done to him, and watched Tony do it to himself. Start out small, make sure there was plenty of lubricant to ease the friction, and try to make sure Tony was enjoying it.

The last thought brought to mind kissing and gentle caress and soft laughter in the intimate darkness of his bedroom, but Steve pushed those images aside. That wasn't what it was like with Tony, apparently. Not that he'd given any thought to what it would be like to be with Tony, but... this maybe hadn't been it. Wasn't exactly what he wanted; wasn't right.

Tony was resettling himself beneath Steve, pillows tucked under his waist and chest. Not roughly but not gently, more clinically than anything else, Steve maneuvered Tony with his one clean hand. His legs were straddling Tony's thighs: coupled with the pillows under Tony's waist, it gave him easy, uninterrupted access to Tony's ass. Steve hesitated, running the lube over the fingers of his right hand. Tony's ass was smooth, and white. He noticed that the other night: how much paler Tony's ass was than the rest of his skin. It was endearing and terrifying at the same time. It felt so intimate, to see something like that.

Before his hesitation become obvious and Tony replied with some sort of transparent jibe, Steve scooted forward on his knees and touched his dry hand to Tony's ass. Tony flinched beneath him, but quickly settled down. Steve squeezed, breath growing short. Tony's ass was firm, muscled, powerful. None of the women he'd been with had asses like this, not even the ones who were SHIELD agents. There was always more fat there, more softness. Not so with Tony.

“Here.” Steve removed his hand from Tony's ass and scrambled around on the bed for the lube. After a moment he found it, then tossed it over to Tony's right side. “Jerk yourself off. Help relax you.”

“Sir yes sir,” Tony grunted unkindly. Steve frowned but didn't say anything. This was a delicate place they were at, balanced on the edge of a knife. To fall would be into a snake pit of insecurities and self-loathing and the thousands of arguments between them. That moment was to come soon enough. For tonight, Steve just wanted to focus on Tony's body beneath him, hard and (mostly, probably, hopefully) willing.

Replacing his hand on Tony's hip, Steve waited a moment as Tony got going: wetting his hand with the lubricant, then moving it between his legs to start jerking off. Steve allowed himself to be transfixed by the site for a moment: the muscles in Tony's back moving, his shoulder and arm flexing up and down, and the actual focus of the action hiding from him by the long, muscular lines of Tony's back. Steve's hand stroked sweetly at Tony's hip, encouraging him in his movements.

Taking a breath, Steve turned his attention to Tony's ass. It was moving slightly, bobbing and flexing with the jerking movement of his hand on the other side of his body. Carefully Steve reached down with his dry hand to spread the cheeks, separate them out as much as he could one-handed to get at the little furled entrance hidden beneath. Steve blew out a breath, then sucked one in, as he examined the opening. Small. Too small. But he'd seen it gaping, sucking that vibrator in, so he knew it would accommodate him.

Taking the lube-covered fingers, Steve pressed two up against the entrance, not in. He smoothed them around, spreading as much of the viscous fluid around the entrance as he could. When Tony gasped and pressed back against them, it occurred to Steve that even that felt good. Carefully he massage the outside of the entrance, moving his fingers against it with some pressure, but not enough to penetrate. Tony groaned and pressed back again.

Steve took that as his signal to continue. He didn't have any interest in drawing this out, in Tony getting mouthy. He was afraid that if he tried to get Tony to beg, to ask for it, that he wouldn't. Or he'd turn cruel again, he'd deny his interest with quick wit and cruel jibes, and Steve would have to abandon Tony—which would hurt Tony even more.

Steve swallowed thickly and tried his best to shut off his brain. No matter what way he spun things, everything about this was wrong. Every option he had, every door he went through had a tiger on the other side. So Steve ignored all that and pushed his index finger inside.

Tony grunted and twitched, body clenching down tight around Steve. Just for a second Steve moved his hand from Tony's hip to rub at his dick, relieve the pressure building there for a moment. Tony was tight. _Impossibly_ tight. Steve couldn't even imagine getting three fingers inside there, much less his dick. Tony had to relax if they were going to do this.

Returning his hand to Tony's hip, he stroked the skin there, soothing stripes of contact down Tony's flank. He didn't let up, didn't pull his finger out or even still it, afraid that Tony would talk back at him, encourage him to go faster than he could take. As a compromise to an argument that hadn't even happened yet, Steve fucked his finger steadily in and out of Tony, pausing only for a moment to dribble more lube directly on Tony's hole and push it in. He was probably going to end up overdoing the lubricant, but he wasn't going to hurt Tony. Not any more than he already had, at least.

He inserted a second finger after a moment, silently working Tony open beneath him. Tony was just as quiet, hand slapping lightly over his dick, body tensing and relaxing at seemingly random intervals. Steve wasn't sure what to say, if he should say anything. Tony was usually the one dominating the conversation, the one who had a million and one things to say to fill the silence between them. Without that, Steve was at a loss. So he just kept fucking Tony steadily with his fingers, watching the muscles in back flex and move, felt his hips roll more surely beneath his hands. Inside, Tony was hot like a furnace, and getting wetter as Steve continued to apply more lubricant. It felt good, in there: it kept Steve's erection full and hard, the anticipation of sinking into that wet, tight heat.

A third finger, and Tony was panting roughly beneath him now, both hands visible on the sheets, clenching hard at them. Steve took a moment to reach around Tony, feel at his erection to make sure he was panting in pleasure, rather than pain. The second he touched Tony's, definitely enthusiastic, erection, Tony's hand was slapping his away.

“Don't,” he managed to grit out. “Just get inside me.”

He didn't want the conversation, didn't want to encourage Tony to talk, but Steve had to check, to make sure. “You're feeling good, right?” he asked, then winced at the way he phrased it. “It doesn't hurt?”

Tony replied with his usual tact. “What, you want to hear about how fucking fantastic those sausage fingers of yours are? Feeling insecure? Yeah, feels good, gonna come soon and kick you out all sad and alone if you don't get in me soon.”

“This is my house,” Steve felt the need to point out. Still, Tony's comment left him feeling warm inside, and a little more at-ease. He pulled his fingers out from Tony and started to work at his dick, smearing it with a little bit of lube before going for the condom still lying on the bed.

“Still'd kick you out,” Tony grumbled. His head turned backwards slightly. “You going?”

“Hang on,” Steve murmured. He brushed a bicep against Tony's flank as he got to work opening the condom wrapper and then sliding the little circle of latex on. It was one of those “for her pleasure” kinds, but Steve supposed it would work as well for a guy as for a girl. He hadn't gone out and bought gay-specific condoms (did they make those? Were they rainbow-colored? Was it bigoted of him to think that?). He poured some more lube over himself once the condom was on. Then, for good measure, he held apart Tony's ass cheeks and poured some more on the entrance there.

Walking forward on his knees, Steve positioned himself behind Tony. He took one moment to look down at the other man, to take in the strong lines of his back, the panting rise and fall of his chest, the brunette mop of unruly hair on the top of a head that was hanging down between his shoulders. He thought taking him from behind like this would be easier, would make it less _Tony_ , but Steve had been kidding himself. He'd be able to recognize Tony by an elbow, by his big toe. Having Tony's face hidden from him didn't make him any less Tony. Didn't make this any less significant.

One hand carefully positioned on Tony's hip and the other steadying at the base of his dick, Steve pushed inside Tony in one smooth motion.

Beneath him, Tony grunted, the masculine noise turning more into a gentle keen as Steve pulled back and shifted forward again, nudging more of his dick inside. He still had several inches outside of Tony's body, but the guy was just so damn _tight_ inside. He moved forward again, eyes crossing a little before falling closed. Dang it. This couldn't be good for Tony.

Reaching down with the best intentions at heart, Steve tried to grab at Tony's dick, try to make him loosen up a bit and enjoy it. Again, Steve found his hand being slapped away.

“You're not enjoying it,” Steve insisted.

“Don't tell me how I feel,” Tony grunted.

Steve gasped and squeezed tight onto Tony's hip, because the other man had pushed his body backwards, sucking another inch of Steve's dick into his body. Steve grunted and just held on, trying to steady himself.

“You've got to relax,” Steve insisted. “It won't feel-”

“Steve, if you touch my dick I'm going to explode. Trust me, it feels good. That help put your chivalry at ease?”

Steve hummed and tried moving, pleased when he found Tony was a little looser than before, a little easier to move inside. He pulled back and pushed in, rocking his hips gently in an effort to loosen Tony more. It was starting to feel like he could pick up a rhythm, like he could begin moving in and out of Tony unimpeded. Steve tried, a couple consistent strokes in and out. Tony grunted beneath him, then gasped, fingers clenching at the sheets.

“Well? You gonna fuck me, Steve? Because I have yet to be impressed.”

Steve laughed, head hanging down between his shoulders, both hands holding tight to Tony's hips, now.

“You're really doing this, Tony? Baiting me?”

“Seems like a good idea,” Tony grunted. His hips pushed back and met Steve's on the next easy thrust, sending sparks flashing behind Steve's eyelids. Judging by the quiet whining noise that came from Tony, it'd felt just as good for him as it had for Steve. Steve snapped his hips harder a little more forcefully the next time, forcing his eyes open to watch the way Tony moved beneath him. His body was a work of art in motion, all vibrating and tension and movements of muscles beneath the skin. It was like even when he was being held still, even when Steve was so carefully controlling both of their movements, Tony still found an outlet for his manic energy, still found a way to be in his own kind of motion.

Steadily Steve started rocking inside Tony, fucking him harder and harder with each snap of his hips. Tony was moaning beneath him after the first few thrusts, head hanging low between his shoulders like he had no control over the muscles in his neck anymore. He certainly still had control over the muscles in his hips, however, since he was rolling them back to meet Steve's every thrust. His movements were fluid, beautiful: Steve knew Tony had a reputation, but it would appear that it was rightly earned. Steve swallowed and squeezed Tony's hips tight. At this, just like at everything he did, Tony was magnificent.

Tony was whispering something between thrusts, something Steve's super-soldier hearing even wasn't able to pick up. A few more thrusts, harder and more pointed, and Tony's voice raised in volume just enough for Steve to catch it: “C'mon, c'mon, please, c'mon.”

Steve gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, then open. Tony was clenching, hot and tight and wet around him, ruining his self-control. But he was liking it, and that was what was important. Tony was liking it, Tony wanted more. With a grunt Steve changed positions, hauling Tony's ass higher, gripping his hips tight. He pounded in now that he had a clear target, knowing the new angle was the right one.

Now Tony cried out beneath him, arms going lax as he collapsed down to the mattress. Steve was holding his hips up, but Tony's upper body had gone completely soft and pliant, face pressed against the pillows beneath him and screwed up in pleasure.

“Right there, isn't it?” Steve asked. Sweat was breaking out all over his body, little droplets falling from him and peppering Tony's skin and his sheets. Tony's body was similarly covered in a light sheen of the stuff.

Tony didn't reply except in his near-constant stream of moans, eyes still screwed shut and hands working helplessly at the sheets. Steve wanted to reach down and grip one of those hands, hold onto them tight, but he couldn't if he wanted to keep the position he had. In the dark corners of his mind, Steve told himself there'd be time enough for that later, for some other lovemaking session, even though he knew this was it. Knew this could be their one and only.

“Answer me,” Steve ordered, harshly. He was fast approaching the brink, unable to keep up pounding something so tight so relentlessly without driving himself over the edge into orgasm. He needed to know where Tony was, if he was about to come, so he could adjust accordingly.

The only response Steve got was a low groan, practically a sob, from Tony, and then his entire body going tight. Quickly Steve removed one of his hands from Tony's hips, adjusting the grip of his other hand so he could keep holding him up. His fingers reached for Tony's dick, tangling over the hard length just in time to feel cum spurting out of it, covering his hand. Steve gasped and groaned, hips jerking wildly inside of Tony. Beneath him, Tony kept coming, cries of pleasure sounding more broken than happy, more distraught. He kept coming, spilling into Steve's hand, soaking it. Steve hung his head and kept fucking him, kept stroking him, kept trying to make it as good for Tony as he could.

When Tony went completely limp beneath him and his dick had expelled the last of its fluids, Steve returned his full attention to fucking into Tony, seeking his own release. He was grateful that he could feel himself on the brink, about to come, because he didn't want this whimpering Tony beneath him for much longer. He didn't want to worry that he was using Tony's body past the point that it felt good.

He came with a low grunt, teeth clenched tight to prevent too much sound escaping. He was afraid it would be as revealing as the sounds Tony had made. He pounded into Tony's ass a few more times, thrusting hard but unsteady as he finished himself off, wrung the last drops of cum from his dick.

He managed to maintain enough self-control to pull out of Tony as soon as he was done, and tie off the condom and toss it into the wastepaper basket on the other side of the room. But then he let himself collapse onto his bed, slick skin sliding against Tony's, who was still shuddering quietly on the pillows beneath him. Steve stroked a hand down his back, unable to see his face from this angle. Then, on a post-orgasmic impulse he couldn't explain, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss between Tony's shoulder blades.

Apparently that was all Tony needed to pull himself together. The shuddering mostly stopped, and no more noises escaped his throat. After a second Tony sat up and then pushed himself off from Steve's bed, looking around determinedly for his clothes. Steve rolled over and watched him, propping himself up on one elbow, head resting on his hand.

Tony got dressed in silence, not looking at Steve or the bed, or anything really besides his clothes.

“Tony,” Steve whispered.

The sound of Tony's jean's zipper was loud in the room. He pulled his shirt on next, then grabbed his shoes. He didn't even take the time to slip into them, just carried them in one hand and left.

“Tony!” Steve repeated. Dread curled in his stomach. He jumped up from bed, still naked, and ran after him.

He found Tony in the kitchen, piling all the reports Steve had printed out together. His shoes were sitting on one of the chairs. “Thanks for the info,” was all Tony said when Steve came to a stop next to him.

“Tony, do you- Do we need to talk-”

Tony cut him off. “I'll see you around.”

As he hurried to the door, Tony only stopped for a second, turning around. “By the way, you were right.” A glimmer of hope flickered up, hot and damning, in Steve's stomach. But then Tony continued with a wry grin, a cruel shadow of his normally vibrant expression. “You fucked me pretty good. Bigger and harder than the vibrator. Good job.”

And then Tony was gone, bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor and door slamming behind him on his way out. Steve rushed forward for the door, but stopped himself before he could fling it open. Tony wanted his space. Tony wanted to not talk about this.

It was Steve who didn't know what he wanted. All the air left Steve's lungs as he leaned against the door, knocking his forehead gently against it.

A new punnett square opened up in his head. What was the right course of action if he was in love with Tony? If he was the one who was gay, and not the other way around? Steve rolled his forehead against the wood door and shut his eyes. At least if it was an option of hurting Tony or hurting himself, it was an easy choice. He had to put an end to this. For Tony's sake.

* * *

Steve stopped the moment he stepped into the Avengers common living area. The lights were off, the only illumination coming from something exploding on the TV. He glanced around the room, confused. Clint was perched on the back of one couch, Kate Bishop and Eli Bradley on either side of him. It almost looked like he was making sure the two of them stayed separated, though judging by the way their feet were barely touching on the floor in front of him, he wasn't doing too good a job.

Looking around the rest of the room, Steve realized that Clint was apparently acting as chaperone to _all_ the Young Avengers, who had taken over the Avengers living room in a sprawl of teenaged limbs, mountains of snacks and can after can of carbonated beverages. Vision and Cassie were piled on the couch with Tommy, who was flicking pieces of popcorn over at his twin's head. Billy was doing a good job ignoring him, if the way he and Teddy were cuddled up on a loveseat was any indication. Billy was comfortably curled practically in Teddy's lap. Steve felt an uneasy pang looking at the two of them, and looked away.

No one seemed to notice him, and the man he was looking for wasn't in here, so Steve decided he should beat a hasty retreat. However, just before he did, Clint caught sight of him (of course he did), and waved Steve over. “Hey,” he loud-whispered. “C'mere.”

Glancing around one last time desperately for an escape, Steve winced and started over to Clint, resigned to his fate. Clint leaned further over the back of the couch, feet practically leaving the cushions as he twisted around to talk to Steve. “Hey. You wanna watch?”

Steve grimaced at the screen. “I'm sure I've got-”

“C'mon, man. Help me out. I got stuck chaperoning these losers.”

In front of Steve, Kate snorted. “Yeah, because you lost a _bet_ with one of these losers.”

Lovingly Clint smacked Kate upside the head. “Watch the movie, short-stack.”

He got a stomped-on bare foot for his troubles. Luckily Kate had removed her shoes as well.

“I really probably shouldn't,” Steve mumbled.

A cough behind him. Steve turned around, practically tripping over his own feet (though he didn't do that anymore. Not often). Tony was standing there in the doorway, looking like a deer caught in the headlights as he took in the sight of a half-dozen hormonal teenagers lounging around his living room.

Steve practically ran away from Clint, crowding Tony against the entranceway to the living room. “Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey,” Tony murmured back. Even in the low light, Steve could read every flicker of eyelash perfectly. Right now Tony was looking past him, at the Young Avengers, but the set of his jaw and deep circles under his eyes told Steve everything he needed to know. Tony was upset, Tony wasn't coping well, Tony was guilt-ridden and punishing himself. And it was all Steve's fault.

Tony blinked and turned away from the sight of the children, focusing on Steve. The second he did his eyes flickered away again, to some point under Steve's jaw. Steve felt sick. His friend couldn't even meet his eyes anymore. He had done that.

“Do you want to go somewhere-” Steve started, but then Clint interrupted him.

“Oh good, two of you. Here, take the couch, I gotta take a whiz.”

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but found himself in a flurry of Barton-motion, which was generally irresistible. Apparently Tony had been caught in it, too, because when the dust settled Steve found him pressed up against Tony's side, sitting on the couch between Kate and Eli. Kate seemed especially put out by that, sitting on Tony's right. Eli just huffed at Steve and looked back at the TV, on Steve's left. Steve felt a momentary pang of guilt at not leaving things better between them, considering the sacrifices Eli's grandfather had made for Steve to be able to become the man he was.

Tony's arm moved against him, and Steve felt a whole new surge of guilt. Some man he had become. Well, one thing at a time.

“Tony, I wanted to talk to you,” Steve whispered.

“Nothing to talk about,” Tony mumbled back.

“I wanted to tell you-”

“Unless you've got some new leads on Zola? Need my help with something?”

More guilt. He hadn't thought about Zola in days. Hadn't made any progress with tracking him down in weeks. The last lead he had was the one Tony had given him, and Steve hadn't made any effort to capitalize on that information because he had been... erstwhile occupied. His mind had been elsewhere, so focused on Tony, Tony's feelings about him, his feelings about Tony, the way Tony _felt_ beneath his hands. He had let his personal life supersede his professional one, and that was never a good sign.

It was that thought, surprisingly, that suddenly clarified everything for Steve. It didn't matter how he felt about Tony. He'd been trying to sort it out for days, weeks even, if he was being honest with himself. But whether he was gay or not, whether he was in love with Tony or not, whether he was any combination of the two, it didn't matter. And although it mattered more how Tony was feeling, how he was dealing with all this and how it was affecting him, _that_ wasn't even the most important thing. The most important concern of Steve's had to be duty: his duty to the country, his duty to humanity, his duty as someone who could do more to help people, to keep them safe, and therefore _must_ do more. He had shirked that duty, all because of his mess of a personal life.

No more. This was what was right for Tony, and it was right ethically. Whether or not it was right for Steve didn't matter. Or rather, it _did_ matter, but what was right for Steve was identical to what was right ethically. He couldn't be happy if he wasn't doing what was right, and what was right was to end this.

“We need to end this,” Steve whispered, so soft he wasn't sure Tony even heard it.

Judging by the way Tony went completely stiff against him, he heard it.

“There's nothing to end,” Tony snapped, still under his breath. “Stop treating me like your girlfriend-”

Tears, hot an unexpected, pricked at Steve's eyes. His voice cracked as he whispered: “Please, Tony: let me end this.”

Quiet, except for the actors on the TV arguing about something. Steve waited, the skin on his arm touching Tony's feeling like it was burning. His eyes were burning, his arm was burning: everything about Steve felt like it was burning. Which was no less than he deserved, for what he'd done, for what he'd put Tony through.

“Steve.”

There was nothing left to say. Nothing to discuss. Carefully, subtly, Steve reached out and clasped Tony's hand in his, squeezing it just once.

“I'm sorry. For everything.” He let go of Tony's hand and felt bereft, but made no move to reclaim it. Instead Steve forced himself to stand and walk away, leaving Tony alone with his thoughts. As he walked down the halls to the elevators he passed Clint, just leaving the bathroom. He ignored Clint's greeting and whatever he was yapping about, pushing past him. He didn't mean to be rude, but right that second Steve couldn't stand to be around anyone, couldn't stand to show his face. He needed to be alone, needed to get his thoughts in order. And he needed to start looking for Zola again, to throw himself in his work. It was his duty. It was the right thing to do.

As the elevator doors closed behind him Steve remained stolid, even as tears started to track down his cheeks. He ducked his head away from the camera in the elevator and wiped at his face as nonchalantly as he could. Tony could be watching, and Steve couldn't let him know how hurt he was. It wasn't Tony's problem. It wasn't Tony's failure. The blame was all on Steve.


	14. Chapter 13

The second he stepped through the door to his apartment, Steve knew someone had been there since he had been out. He almost reached for the shield before he remembered Bucky carried it now; instead he corrected himself and reached for the sidearm he carried on his hip. He treaded carefully through his front hall, eyeballed the living room and kitchen quickly before turning to the guest bedroom on his right. He nudged the door open and checked the room quickly. In front of him, to his right, behind the door. He hurried over to the closet, checked in there. Nothing.

Heading back into the hall, Steve kept an eye on the living room while he headed for the kitchen. As soon as he got into the kitchen he realized why he had sensed something. Sighing, he tucked his sidearm away, rebuckling the holster. Set on top of his kitchen counter was a stack of documents. Steve's hand trembled as he reached forward, snatching up the little yellow post-it stuck to the top of the stack.

_Got a buddy to run some tests for me. Eliminated two types of energy. Data on that and new lists in there. Happy hunting._

Scrawled beneath the messy handwriting was a crude sketch of an Iron Man helmet. Like the little winghead Steve would draw on his.

Grabbing the files, Steve hurried to his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed. He cradled the files in his lap, but in his hands was the little post-it. He stroked the Iron Man helmet lovingly.

A minute or an hour later, whenever Steve managed to stop staring at the little helmet with tears in his eyes, Steve fumbled for his cellphone. 

“Maria?” he asked. “I'm signing off on the armors, to release them to Tony. I want them at his place tonight. I'll give you the paperwork tomorrow morning.”

He hung up on Maria's grumbled “Not like I had anything better-”.

Steve fell back onto his pillows and cradled the little post-it in his hand. He fell asleep staring at it.

* * *

His music was blaring even louder than usual as he ripped the new armors apart in his workshop. One hand stuck in the innards of one of the machines, Tony reached with the other at a cup of coffee perched precariously on a stack of socket wrench sockets. He managed to grab it just as it started to fall off, sockets rolling every which way. He ignored them and gulped the last of his coffee. Fuck. He needed to get a refill on that.

As if summoned by his very thoughts, Pepper Potts chose just that moment to swipe her keycard and let herself into his workshop.

“Hey, Pep. Grab me a refill,” he shouted.

Grimacing forcefully—she really shouldn't do that, she was going to get frown lines on her lovely face—Pepper strode over to his music system without acknowledging him. She turned the music almost all the way down, of course she did, and then made a beeline for him.

“Hey.” He held his coffee mug out for her, one arm still stuck in the armor. He closed one eye in concentration as he felt around. He was looking for that damn... switch... Ah! Hands slipping over all the mess of blood and tissue that was the insides of these armors, Tony finally managed to flip the switch he was looking for. The armor shuddered once, several of its systems flaring up for a split second. Then it went completely still. Tony grinned and beamed up at Pepper triumphantly. 

“Coffee?” He asked again, waggling the cup at her.

“You need to go to bed,” she offered without preamble. She didn't even acknowledge the coffee cup.

Tony frowned at her, then looked away. “Fine. I'll get my own coffee.” Forlornly Tony set his cup aside and pulled his arm out of the armor. He wiped it off from fingertips to forearm with an already blood-stained rag. Working with these things was seriously _gross_. When Tony found this villain, he was going to give him an extra conk on the head just for that. 

Now, what was next? He'd managed to isolate each of the armors from each other on their network and rip them apart. He didn't have much more he could find out from them when they _weren't_ networked together. Sure, there had been some improvements made since the last iteration, some upgrades to their general hardware and software, but the real interesting thing was what they had managed to do when they were networked together. 

Maybe he could start smaller than that, though. They had tried to bump him away from his own internal systems, right? So then the first step up from singular armors isolated from their network was to bring one armor online and network _with_ it. Tony still had no clue how it had managed to take over his own systems—that shouldn't be _possible_. He was unhackable. When you went transhumanist and started merging your body with tech, that pretty much had to be the first thing you made sure of. And Tony had, in triplicate.

“ _Tony_.”

Tony jerked away from his armors, suddenly registering Pepper's voice. It had the tone of someone who had been repeating the same thing many times. Shit. She looked _pissed_.

“What do you want?” Tony asked, exasperated. 

Pepper's nostrils flared. Tony scooted back a hair. That was never a good sign.

“I want you to go to bed.”

Tony snorted. “Yeah. Not gonna-”

“You've been awake for days. You haven't eaten, you're exhausted-”

“I'm fine.”

“You haven't met with _any_ of your friends. Don't think I didn't notice how the Avengers got called out two days ago and you didn't go.”

“Get out,” Tony snapped. He didn't have to put up with this shit.

But rather than listen to him—she never listened to him, this was why they'd never work together, she pretty much refused to listen to him as a rule—Pepper took another step towards him. “I just want you to be healthy, Tony. Take care of yourself. And right now that means getting at least eight hours of sleep.”

Tony's mouth tightened and he turned away from Pepper. What did he need to do? Get this sucker on a network with him. The easiest way to do that would be to go hardwire, though that posed some risk, of course. He spoke over his shoulder, without looking at Pepper:

“Stop mothering me. What did I tell you about mothering me?”

“It's not 'mothering' you to tell you that you need to stop punishing your body for whatever it is _this_ time-”

“As CEO of Stark Resilient I order you to stop mothering me.”

“I'm CEO.”

Shit. He'd forgotten. Fuck, how long exactly had it been since he slept? 

_Three days, nine hours, fifty-four minutes._

_Three days, two hours, fourteen minutes since Steve let go of his hand and walked away._

“You're fired,” Tony replied.

“I'm CEO,” Pepper reiterated. Why the hell had he thought making her CEO would be a good idea, again?

“I'm majority shareholder.”

“Then call a shareholder meeting.”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you too, Tony. Now could you please stop doing this to yourself and get some sleep?”

The socket wrench he was holding fell from his hands. What had he been holding that for?

Fuck. Tony pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He felt like he was _dying_. He needed to sleep, Pepper was right. But every time he thought about sleep, every time he thought about slowing down long enough _to_ think, he knew the overwhelming picture that would fill his mind. He would think of nothing but Steve, remember nothing but Steve, _be_ nothing but empty without Steve. The thought of going to bed was even worse, because he'd be able to see Steve in the room, watching him with that hungry expression, feel Steve's fingers on his skin like a brand, smell him all around him. How long had it been since he fucked up this badly?

_One year, six months, eighteen days, fourteen hours._

_One year, six months, eighteen days, fourteen hours_ _since Tony had seen Steve die, right in front of him,_ _on the courthouse steps._

“Just... leave me the fuck alone, Pepper.”

“Oh _Tony_.” Her tone of voice was pitying. Tony hated it. “What happened?”

“No.”

“Is this about the armors...”

Tony jumped up from his spot on the workshop floor, trying to escape Pepper's pity. “No, Pepper, it's not about the-” Tony viciously kicked the armor at his feet. It hurt. “-fucking armors. Just drop it.”

A long pause. Tony kept his back to Pepper, not wanting to see that sweet, concerned look he was sure she was leveling him with. He didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve her pity, or sympathy, or understanding, or whatever other kind, considerate emotion she had for him that day. Not when this was all his fault.

“Is this about Steve?”

Tony stared out his workshop window, into the night. He felt like his eye line, were it unobstructed by the thousands of buildings between here and there, would be directly pointed at Steve's apartment. Even though there was no way to know that. He made a note to check, later.

“Are you sleeping with Steve?”

Anger flared up, crackling white, inside him. “No, Pepper!” he shouted. “I'm not fucking Steve!”

His voice cracked on Steve's name. He brought a hand up to one of his eyes, holding it there. His head hurt. RT wasn't keeping up with how rapidly he was damaging his body, at this point. Another failure of his.

“Do you want to be?”

Tony's knees gave out beneath him. His head dropped down, and he barely had the energy to get his hands up to support it. He buried his face in his hands, tears flowing freely now. The weight of the last few days, the exhaustion of it all, crashed over him all at once. It wasn't just the physical exhaustion of staying awake, the caloric exhaustion from not eating, or the mental exhaustion from studying these machines, pushing his work to its limits. It was emotional exhaustion, the exhaustion of _not_ thinking about Steve, of _only_ thinking about him, about the ability to call him being at the tip of his mind, all he had to do was reach out and grab it. But he didn't, because if he did he'd say something. It would either be too soul-baring or completely closed off and callous, but either way it'd be wrong. He'd always be wrong around Steve; always be wrong _for_ Steve. And the weight of restraining himself from doing that, from not giving into temptation, was suddenly pressing down on him all at once, crushing him.

In the back of his mind Tony heard Pepper talking to someone who wasn't him. Probably calling a cab for him, or something. A moment passed, and then the next sound Tony heard was the clacking of her heels on the epoxy floor of his workshop, coming to a stop just behind him. She squatted down next to him, smoothing the lines of her pencil skirt over her knees.

Then Pepper pulled him against her chest and held him close. A sob escaped Tony as he pressed his face into her chest, body shaking with exhaustion and loss. Pepper's neatly manicured hands stroked the back of his head. She was making little sweet hushing noises, little maternal sounds. Sounds Tony thought every woman had programmed into them, just waiting for him to bring it out in them. Because Tony wasn't much more than a child, unable to run his own life half the time.

“It's okay,” Pepper murmured, fingers still stroking through his hair. “It's okay to want that.”

“I don't want to fuck him,” Tony murmured. Pepper just hummed neutrally in response.

 _I want to make love to_ _him_ _,_ Tony's traitorous mind screamed at him. _I want to lay_ _him_ _down, spread_ _him_ _out, have_ _him_ _all for myself and never share_ _him_ _again. I want_ _him_ _here, by my side, always_.

“Don't put anything in my drink,” Tony mumbled a short time later. 

Pepper pressed a kiss to his hair. “I wouldn't do that to you,” she promised.

Fresh tears pricked at Tony's eyes. He knew that. He somehow managed to surround himself with good people, even if he was a complete bag of shit most days. Tony groaned. He was exhausted. He only got to this level of self-loathing when he was beyond the threshold of exhaustion. Pepper was right: he needed to sleep.

The door clacked open and a fresh set of footsteps entered his workshop. They were men's footsteps. Tony jerked up, ripping himself from Pepper's grip. He was terrified he'd see a carefully-trimmed blonde haircut set above deep blue eyes. 

But it was just Rhodey. Tony breathed a sigh of relief. Then he scrubbed at his face, embarrassed to be caught in such a state. Then again, it wasn't like Rhodey hadn't seen him worse off than this before. 

“We're getting you to bed,” Rhodey ordered.

Tony jerked back, then, scurrying backwards on hands and feet in a loose crab walk. 

“I can't,” he croaked out. Bed meant upstairs. Meant bedroom. Where Steve had watched him, Steve had placed his hand on his hip, Steve had come with him, twice. Tony couldn't go back to those memories, couldn't think about everything he'd lost by being a callous asshole, by not realizing what was happening earlier. By not just... Just being a _man_ and telling Steve how he felt. Of course, he couldn't tell Steve how he felt when he didn't even realize he felt that way until he watched Steve leave him, felt his hand slip from his and the cold take its place.

Pepper and Rhodey were staring at him concernedly. Tony scrubbed viciously at his face. He couldn't go back to his bed. But he couldn't stay up any longer. And the couch in his workshop wasn't an option anymore, either. Everywhere had memories. Everywhere, it seemed, was steeped in Steve.

“Rhodey, can you... Can you get me to a hotel?” At Rhodey's surprised look, Tony hurried to explain. “To sleep. Just to sleep. I... I can't sleep here. Not tonight.”

After a moment Rhodey nodded. Tony breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't deserve the friends he had, but he was grateful for them every day. Rhodey stepped forward and held a hand out, helping Tony to his feet. Tony leaned heavily on him as they walked out. As he passed Pepper, Tony reached out and dragged his fingertips across her wrist. In apology, or thank you, or maybe both: Tony himself wasn't sure which.

They were in the car for about a minute before Rhodey asked.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Tony mumbled. His forehead was pressed to the glass of the passenger window, probably getting grease marks all over it. It felt like being drunk: getting this tired. Tony wondered sometimes if that was why he did it. He hoped not.

“You wanna tell me why you're not responding to Avengers calls, then? You're still on the team, you know.”

Tony stayed quiet. The lights moving past the window in the dark were almost nauseating. He closed his eyes.

“Are the answers to both of those the same thing?” Rhodey prompted, one more time.

“I fucked Steve,” Tony whispered.

“ _What_?”

“Or he fucked me, I don't know how they- I don't know how I'm supposed to say it. We fucked.” A thousand little bits of information about gay rights activism and gay porn sites and gay hate crimes flashed across Tony's brain before he shut it all out. He needed rest. He needed to be away from everything, just for a night or two. Little by little, Tony started shutting down all the systems he was wired into. He even shut off the internet, sick of all that information pounding at the edges of his brain, waiting to be let in.

“I don't know...” Tony moaned. “We just. We were teasing each other, and... I thought maybe he was turning gay for me, and I panicked-”

“And then his dick fell into you?” Rhodey finished for him.

Tony bit the inside of his cheek. 

“I don't know,” he whispered. “I know I fucked it up. I know this is exactly everything I should have never done. I've... I've ruined Steve, I've ruined everything between us.”

Rhodey's tone of voice was Not Happy. Tony winced and burrowed further into his nice cool window. “Okay, first of all, don't give me this bullshit 'Mr. Perfect' picture of Steve, because if he fucked you, or you guys fucked, or... Damn it, Tony, I seriously did _not_ need to know which way around you guys did it, thanks a lot for that-”

A choking half-laugh half-sob escaped Tony's throat.

“If you guys fucked,” Rhodey continued, “then Steve is just as much a part of this as you are. Don't give me that shit about him being better than you. Judging by the state you're in, _he's_ the one who fucked up this time.”

“No, you don't understand,” Tony grumbled. He was irritated, now. He was all for friends who stood up for him and had his back, but seriously, everyone who knew the two of them had to realize that if something was wrong between Tony and Steve, it was ninety-nine times out of a hundred Tony's fault. And this time was _not_ the exception. “I pushed him into this. I thought he might be developing feelings for me, but I couldn't call it off. I didn't want him to hate me again, so I kept going, kept pushing it-”

Rhodey interrupted him. “Wait. You let Steve fuck you and you didn't even want it? That's seriously messed up, Tony. And the fact that Steve didn't even notice-”

Tony could hear the leather of the steering wheel cracking beneath Rhodey's grip. Tony sighed. 

“No. I... I wanted it. I.” The words stuck in Tony's throat. His brows drew together in an effort to squeeze the words out. “I think I'm. I might be. Gay. For Steve.”

A long _woosh_ of air from the other side of the car as Rhodey processed this. Tony kept his eyes firmly shut out of fear for what he might seen in the reflection of the window. He didn't need to see the disgust on his best friend's face.

“What's the problem, then?”

 _That_ caused Tony to open his eyes and look over at Rhodey. 

“What?”

Rhodey glanced over at him, expression not even close to disgusted, just kind of confused and maybe more than a touch exasperated.

“What's the problem?” he asked again. “You thought Steve was into you, you figure out you're into him... Why aren't you guys, uh... you know. Going at it?”

Tony's mouth hung open slightly as he stared at Rhodey. “Because he's not interested.”

“You just said-”

“I was wrong!” Tony explained with a shout. His nerves felt raw, every emotion too close to the surface. Tony scrubbed at his hair. “He broke things off the... the next time we saw each other after... recently. He broke things off. Made it clear that he wasn't interested, that it'd be best if I just get over this.” Tony laughed brokenly, head falling back to thunk against the nice leather headrests of Rhodey's expensive car. “He knew it first. Figured it out. That I was gay.”

“Okay seriously, you gotta stop saying you're gay, because the amount of pussy you've gotten over your lifetime obviously negates that,” Rhodey joked. “Go with bi, at least. Or, hey: Bowie said he was 'trisexual'. That sounds pretty cool. Pretty rock and roll. Go with that.”

“I hate you so much,” Tony whined.

“Listen,” Rhodey said. “In that ultra-horrifying habit of over sharing we've gotta break you of? You mentioned Steve was on the. Uh. Pitching end. Right?”

Tony nodded sorrowfully.

“Well, how much could he really have been faking it? Brother's gotta be a little bit gay. It's not even prison rules, I mean, come on.”

“He was doing it for me,” Tony mumbled. His eyes stung with fresh tears. Fucking hell, he was going to just be one big crybaby until he got some sleep, wasn't he?

“Guys don't just fuck their buddies out of... what are you even thinking? A sense of guilt? Obligation? Seriously Tony, not even Steve is that fucked up.”

Quietly Tony thought to himself _I am_. Because he almost had, hadn't he? He hadn't realized he was gay—or bi, or tri, or whatever cutesy labels Rhodey wanted to put on it—until that last night with Steve. He had been going along with everything until that point either because he didn't want to let Steve win or, later, because he was too much of a coward to hurt Steve. 

But then again, maybe he'd been so willing to fuck Steve _because_ he was gay for him. Already. Steve had been saying it all along, after all. Maybe Steve had just realized it earlier, and Tony had been gay that whole time. He'd just been in denial. That didn't mean that Steve was gay, though. It just meant he was a better person than Tony, and was more able to push aside his own biological imperative for the sake of his friends.

Tony couldn't believe he made Steve do that with him. It made Tony want to be sick. He shut his eyes and curled up against the window again. Or maybe that was the exhaustion. 

“Holy shit,” he heard Rhodey mumble to himself. “Okay, I'm going to say this very clearly, so you can't pretend you didn't understand: _You guys need to talk to each other_. Not about the weather. Not about the organic armors or whatever the hell Steve's up to with Bucky and Natasha. You two need to get into a room and talk to each other about feelings. You get me?”

“I have a lot of feelings about you shutting up and dropping me at the nearest hotel,” Tony grumbled. “Maybe I'll talk to Steve about that.”

“I have a lot of feelings about you being an idiot,” he thought he heard Rhodey mumble. Then, in a more normal voice, Rhodey said: “Listen to me again. I'm being very clear: You two are probably almost definitely both interested in being gay with each other. You feel me?”

Tony grumbled and curled up in a tighter ball. He did not “feel” Rhodey. Rhodey was “feeling” all wrong. Everything about this was wrong. But since Rhodey was the one driving and Tony had his own “feeling” that Rhodey wasn't going to drop him at a hotel until he agreed, Tony reluctantly nodded his head and didn't say another word.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and shuddered. Showed how much Rhodey understand Steve, if he thought the man could ever be romantically interested in Tony. It was a wonder the perfect asshole stuck around Tony platonically half the time. 

The car rolled to a stop a few short minutes later, confirming Tony's suspicion that Rhodey had been driving in circles just to get him to talk it out (either that or Tony had fallen asleep without realizing it for a while, which was always possible at this stage of exhaustion). Tony stumbled out of the car onto the sidewalk, brisk October air serving to wake him up a little bit, then waved Rhodey away. Rhodey instead rolled down his window and gave Tony a pointed look.

“You got your wallet? ID? Credit card? Cell phone?”

Tony patted himself down. Miraculously, he had all of those things. Pepper must have slipped them into his jeans as he left with Rhodey. 

Rhodey nodded. “Alright. Get some sleep. And remember: You're going to talk with Steve. About your gayness for him.” Tony jerked and glanced around, but the only person on the street at this hour was a bum in the alleyway next to the hotel. Rhodey laughed and pulled away from the curb, leaving Tony to his sleep.

Tony sighed and scrubbed at his face. Sleep. He'd process everything else Rhodey had said—even if it had all been uninformed nonsense—in the morning. Two days from now. When he'd actually managed to catch up on his sleep debt.

Shaking himself, Tony turned to walk into the hotel. But something caught his eye before he could. He glanced around, wondering what could be raising alarms in the back of his mind this time of night, on the dead street. 

He noticed it a second before it happened: the bum from the alleyway was gone. Tony moved, armor spilling out of his skin, but someone was behind him, faster than he was. His exhaustion-drenched reactions were just too slow.

A needle entered his skin at the side of his neck. The last thing Tony thought as he was dragged unconscious was _At least I'll get some sleep this way._

* * *

Steve could barely hear Bucky over the roar of his bike's engine and the wind whipping past his helmet, not to mention the hum and honking of New York traffic on the four-forty. 

“ _What_?!” he shouted again.

The sound quality on Bucky's end wasn't much better. Steve was pretty sure he was either on a train or at a train station, from what he'd managed to make out earlier. Plus he was in Russia, which even on Stark phones made communication spotty at best.

“I said it's _repulsor energy_!” Bucky shouted, and this time Steve heard him.

He shook his head inside his helmet. “It can't be. I told you not to waste your time-”

“Yeah, well: You're welcome! We found him, Steve, and the slimeball is running his whole operation off repulsor energy. Including the trains.”

“Zola doesn't have any supply trains!!” Steve shot back. “Repulsor energy or not, we checked for heat signatures months ago. There's no illicit trains running in or under Russia.”

“He's got them a hundred yards under existing tracks.”

“ _What_?”

“I said: 'He's got them-'”

He cut Bucky off. “I heard you!” Steve growled in annoyance. He needed to get over to New Jersey, _now_ , and it was taking him for-flipping-ever with this traffic. Briefly Steve considered flipping on his emergency lights, but he stopped himself. It wasn't warranted yet. 

“Listen, are you and Nat in position?” Steve asked, trying to refocus.

“We're gonna need a hell lot more firepower. I'm going to call the Avengers in: you should be on the quinjet with them. And we need Stark.”

“I'm trying to get to him now,” Steve explained. “Send the quinjet off without me, me and Tony'll ride together in his jet.”

“No. Stark'll get here faster if he just uses the suit. And no offense Steve, but we need him here more than you. You'll only be slowing him down.”

Steve ground his teeth together so hard he was sure Bucky could hear them over the line. It was like Bucky was conspiring to keep them separated, even though he didn't know anything about their... recent adjustments. They hadn't spoken since Steve forfeited the game, and of course now that he had an excuse to spend uninterrupted hours with Tony doing what they did best together—taking down baddies in the field—Bucky was snatching that away from him.

Steve took a breath. Bucky didn't know how the call he was making was affecting Steve. More than that, it was the right call. No reason to let emotions or domestic disputes get in the way when Zola needed taking down. He was a slippery snake, that mad scientist, and Steve needed to be one hundred percent on top of his game to take him down. 

“Do you guys have any handle on what Zola's up to?” Steve asked. 

Natasha's voice came over the line now. “No. There's a mixture of researching, testing, and manufacturing. At the very least it doesn't seem limited to creating a single new body, like you thought, but that could be part of it.”

Steve hummed his comprehension, mind racing as he tried to plan out his next dozen moves against Zola. Tony would have a better idea of what was going on, be able to help. Steve laid down on his horn, ramping past the eight cars stopped in front of him. If he could just _get to Tony_.

“Steve.” Natasha again. “I wasn't able to get inside, but I've been watching. I've counted four of the main operators working under Zola. There's one missing: Daisuke Nakamura. I haven't laid eyes on him in the week I've been in position. It could mean nothing: it's a big operation Zola's got here, there's no reason to think he doesn't have in-house sleeping areas. But we've seen all the other main operators, and all the workers, leave the warehouse at some point or another. Except him.”

“Do you think he's dead?” Steve felt a pang of guilt over that. Judging by his file, Daisuke hadn't been one of the bad ones. Daisuke was the man who had broken laws to try and get life-saving research for his son, been fired in disgrace. By all accounts, Zola had scooped him up at his most vulnerable, given him a chance to continue his work, even if it was too late for his boy. Pushed to the edge by tragedy and circumstance, but grief-stricken and lost: not bad. 

“Dead, or doing some dirty work for Zola elsewhere,” Natasha cautioned.

“Copy that,” Steve replied.

Natasha spoke again. “But we do think it has something more to do with Tony than just being repulsor energy.”

“You think Tony's mystery villain is Zola,” Steve supplied. He grimaced as he hopped a curb around a line of gridlocked traffic. Okay, so maybe his urgency was overriding his need to be a law-abiding citizen just this moment. “Yeah, pretty much figured that one out myself. I tried to tell Tony weeks ago-”

“There's more,” Natasha cut in. “From what we can gather on the manufacturing end, he's the one producing the organic robots that have been targeting Tony.”

“It's pretty gruesome,” Bucky said. “They're growing these things in vats that are like humans with all the interesting bits cut out, and then shoving machines around them. I'm pretty sure one of the iterations had a nervous system and vocal cords, Steve.”

Steve frowned. “How could you know something that specific?” Natasha had just said they hadn't been able to get inside. 

“There was screaming,” Bucky explained. Steve could hear the wince in his voice. Steve himself felt queasy over the mental image. 

A truck cut in front of him. Steve barely managed to keep the bike upright, sending it into a controlled slide around four lanes of traffic and finally popping it upright on a curb. “Hell,” he grunted. That had been close. But Steve didn't even take a moment to breathe before he was gunning the bike again, flying back into traffic and down to Jersey. Why did Tony have to live so far _away_ , now? It was foolish of him. Forget Stark Resilient and trying to rebuild himself from the ground up: Tony belonged with the Avengers, in the Tower he himself had built. Steve was going to figure out a way to insist on it, even if Tony kept Stark Resilient HQ in Jersey. 

“Anything else?” Steve asked. He was getting closer now. Traffic was still bad, but he could see the sign for Jersey in the distance, at the end of the bridge.

There was hesitation on the other end of the line. That or interference—Steve had no way to be really sure. But it felt like hesitation, like Bucky and Natasha were sharing significant looks, wondering how much to let him in on. 

“Guys?” he prompted.

“Tell Stark to be careful,” Bucky finally replied. “When you get him over here. We're not sure how much of his tech Zola stole, but the repulsor energy readings are off the chart all around the warehouse, so we know he's got that much at least. And according to some of that hot air Stark's always blowing, that's not supposed to be possible, right?”

Steve grimaced. “I told him this might be happening a week ago. He refused to listen.” Steve did his best to put from his mind what else had happened that night. He was focused on the mission. Him and Tony could go over whatever else they needed to after this was done. For now, it was clear heads and objective focus. 

“Yeah, well, it's happening,” Bucky grunted. “And who knows what other tech he's been sitting on. We don't know how he got this, but Stark better assume everything he's got is compromised, including that extreme techno-magic thing he's got.”

“Extremis,” Steve murmured, but he was already four steps ahead of the conversation. He had thought maybe the organic armor had something to do with Extremis, especially since those armors had managed to take control of Tony weeks ago. This just confirmed it. Zola was up to something, something genetic but related to Extremis. Steve didn't know enough about the virus—if that's even what it was—to know exactly what was going on, but Tony would. He just had to get to Tony, get him to listen, and Tony would figure out what to do.

For now, Steve could only plan based on what he knew. Extremis had to do with flesh-and-blood people, so that was probably Tony's long-sought after answer to why the unknown villain had been using organic armor in the first place. Zola was planning to do something with Extremis, something that involved armor and organic systems, kind of the reverse of what Tony was, what he had become.

Steve slammed on the break as he hit a wall of traffic. His heart pounded. 

“He needs Tony,” he whispered.

“What was that?” Bucky shouted over the phone. They were breaking up again.

Panic spiking in his chest, Steve revved the engine of the bike, searching for an opening. _There_. Three cars down, one over, and then it was a straight shot off this damn bridge. Steve took off, ignoring the protesting honks and shouts of the car-bound commuters.

“He needs Tony!” he shouted into his bluetooth phone as he wove in and out of traffic. “All this time, Tony's been the target! He needs his body, his Extremis, to finish his project.”

“Why would Zola even think of Tony, though?” Bucky asked.

But Steve already knew the answer to that.

“Because of me,” he mumbled. Then, louder: “I'm five minutes out from Tony,” Steve told Natasha and Bucky. “Scramble the Avengers. I'll have Tony drop me off at the Tower on his way over.”

“Roger that, Rogers,” Bucky quipped.

Steve wasn't feeling quite light-hearted enough for that at the moment. “You two stay safe. No rushing in until we get there.”

Finally the traffic cleared enough for Steve to really gun it. He passed into Jersey without incident, turning down the streets for Stark Resilient. He needed to get in contact with Tony. 

Bucky snorted. “Don't worry about us. From what little we've managed to see inside Zola's operation, it is not pretty. I'm good with waiting for back-up on this one. Bucky out.”

Steve pulled into Stark Resilient garage with a squeal of tires over smooth cement. He practically jumped off the bike while it was still running, only barely managing to park it stably before leaping off and running at a dead sprint for the elevators. He had to get to Tony. Tony was in danger. Zola was going to try and _take Tony away from him_ , and it was all Steve's fault.

There was a man standing in front of the elevator. An asian man, Japanese to be specific, in a neat suit and terrible bowl haircut. Steve's heart leapt to his throat, every nerve ending and sense and muscle on high alert, just waiting to be called upon, to leap out in attack.

“Dr. Nakamura.” Somehow Steve managed to keep the feral growl building in his chest out of his voice, though it was a near thing. “I hate to be rude, Doctor, but I'm afraid you have bad news for me, and I am very much interested in making sure my friend is safe.”

Dr. Nakamura's eyes were sad, but not scared. That worried Steve. As subtly as he could Steve sniffed the air, trying to check for bomb residue. He listened for any tell-tale hum, squinted carefully at the neat, thin lines of Dr. Nakamura's suit. He had the eyes of a man resigned to his fate, a man who was not afraid to die. It reminded Steve of a true believer suicide bomber, though Steve couldn't see any sort of detonation device on the man—not that Zola wouldn't be able to come up with some subtle explosive carrier, something new that would go undetected and unnoticeable during casual observation. On the other hand, Dr. Nakamura's file never indicated him to be a fanatic. He was just a man who was trying to save his son. Of course, now his son was dead, which made Dr. Nakamura a man with nothing to lose. Steve clenched his fists and steeled himself for whatever may come. 

“Captain Rogers,” Dr. Nakamura greeted him, speech heavily-accented but clear.

“Do you have something to share with me, Dr. Nakamura? A message?”

“Your friend is already gone.”

Steve's knuckles cracked.

“Doctor. I'm going to have to ask you to-”

“Dr. Zola sent me. He wants you to know where Tony Stark is.” 

Steve forced himself to breathe. His vision was getting spotty and red around the edges. Breathe. Just breathe. It wouldn't help to find Tony if he didn't listen to Dr. Nakamura. Obviously Zola sent him here for a reason, and Steve had a feeling it wasn't to stall for time. Not when Zola was headquartered safe in Russia, half a world away. Even the quinjet took some time to travel that far.

“Doctor.” Steve nodded for him to continue. His fists weren't making any progress at unclenching, but Steve figured he deserved credit for just how much restraint he was managing at that moment.

Respectfully Dr. Nakamura bowed his head at Steve. 

“Dr. Zola wanted you to know that he has kidnapped Tony Stark. This happened last night, nearly sixteen hours ago.” Steve's whole body shook. Tony had been a prisoner for sixteen hours. And Steve hadn't even _realized_. Steve wanted to be sick. 

Dr. Nakamura continued. “Dr. Zola intends to kill Tony Stark. He needs to, to complete his experiments. He wants you to know there is nothing you can do about this, but that you are welcome to search for him. Dr. Zola says he would be honored, to have you witness his final design.”

Dr. Nakamura was sweating. His face had gone pale, his whole body was trembling. Too late Steve realized what was happening. He stumbled forward, but Dr. Nakamura was already saying:

“Dr. Zola says: I win, Captain Steve Rogers.”

Dr. Nakamura collapsed into Steve's arms with those last words, whole body convulsing. Steve knew there was nothing he could do, that whatever genetic time bomb Zola had implanted into Dr. Nakamura, it had already done its job. Still, Steve held Dr. Nakamura,waiting for him in his last moments.

“I am sorry, Captain Rogers,” Dr. Nakamura managed to whisper. 

Tenderly Steve wiped the sweat from Dr. Nakamura's brow, ignoring the tears of frustration stinging at his own eyes. 

“It's okay,” he reassured the dying man. Dr. Nakamura was not a bad man. He wasn't Zola.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated, voice weaker than before. Grimly Steve stared down at the man as his face grew paler, his complexion completely ashen now. His breathing was rattling, heartbeat slow beneath Steve's fingertips. It was a matter of moments.

“You can rest now,” Steve reassured him. “You can go to your son.”

A smile ghosted across Dr. Nakamura's lips before his heart beat one last time. His body went limp, a shallow gasp escaping him before he stilled entirely. Steve bowed his head for a moment, trying to bring himself together.

Steve lifted his head, eyes wet. He wasn't going to let this happen. Not again. Zola had ruined too many lives, taken too many friends and good men from Steve, from the world. Zola was going to meet his end, _today._

Gently Steve laid Dr. Nakamura down on the ground, then called the hospital to send an ambulance for him. The next phone call he made was on the Avengers full frequency.

“Avengers: Assemble.”

  
  



	15. Chapter 14

 

Tony awoke with a bone-rattling gasp, chest heaving as it sucked in oxygen. It took him a few dizzying seconds to figure out why he couldn't breathe, what the pressure at his chest was, why his body was stretched so tight. It came to him as he tried to move forward or sit up. Chains rattled around him, bit coldly into his wrists. He gasped again, sucking in some more hard-won air. His vision spun, though that might have been from whatever drugs they had him on, rather than the lack of oxygen. The lack of air certainly wasn't _helping_ , of course.

“Ah, you're awake, Mr. Stark.”

Tony coughed again, body shaking with it. But that was good, coughing was good: it was forcing more air into his lungs, more oxygen into his blood. Oxygenated blood was good, was a big _yes_ if he wanted to get clear-headed enough to figure out a.) what trouble he'd gotten himself into this time, and b.) how exactly he planned on getting out of it.

He was in a dungeon of some kind. Actually, more of a really shitty, unfinished basement. But big. A warehouse basement, then. The lack of windows and persistent cold and damp were tipping him off to that, especially since it was only just fall in the good hemisphere of the world. It shouldn't be this cold this time of year anywhere, now that he thought about it. Except of course, maybe in Russia.

Tony groaned, straining forward. He was in Russia. He just knew it. Something about the architecture was tipping him off, all function and no flair. He was probably in some ex Soviet bunker of some sort, ex Soviet manufacturing plant. That was it, that was definitely it, judging by the leaking pipes and sad, dirt floors that stretched everywhere Tony could see.

Tugging gently on the chains, Tony blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to really get a good look around him. He blinked down and checked his chest once his eyes were clearer. RT still in place. Okay, good. Good. He still didn't know where that fucking smug voice had come from, but he knew it sounded familiar. A face to go with the name would be nice. A few more blinks, and the world around him came into more focus than just dirt and steel and damp.

The basement was a lab. Converted to one, at least. It looked like a cheap Hollywood mad scientist lab, like something Ed Wood would have a wet dream about. There were flickering Tesla coils, vats of greenish yellow liquids with... _something_ growing in it, squirming around. Beakers and test tubes abounded, covering every surface of the many steel tables that had been rolled in to cover the open space of the basement in a labyrinthine network of table top working space.

What set it all apart, however, were the armors. Dozens and dozens of armors, all in different stages of completion. Armors that were just piecemeal scattered about on tables, armors that were chest plates, shoulder plates, whole upper torsos strung up like Tony was right now, waiting for their lower halves. Lower halves on the other side of the room, the two batches coming together in the middle where several armors looked nearly complete. Nearly, because all the bits of metal and mechanics strewn around were oddly hollow. Not hallow enough to put a person in, not like Tony's, but...

With a gut-wrenching twist, Tony realized _that_ was what was growing in the bubbling vats: the “organic” part of “organic armor”. Oh, fuck: some of the vats looked like they had whole humans, grotesquely misshapen to resemble that of an armor unit, growing inside them. Except the insides of the flesh and muscle growing in the tubes was empty: no organs. It was just disgustingly muscular arms and legs attached in the center by some meaty abdominal muscles and not much else. Tony thought he was going to be sick.

“Taking a moment to appreciate my work? You should, Mr. Stark. You are the final piece of the puzzle, after all.”

The faceless voice suddenly solidified as a singular, grotesque form stepped forward from the shadows. A gigantic face dominated a humanoid body, set inside the chest cavity, taking up the whole space. Arnim Zola. And he was practically licking his lips as he stared at Tony.

Tony didn't show his panic. The chains rattled where his whole body jerked involuntarily, but he kept his expression blank. But a scientist looking at him like a bug on a pin board, someone telling him he was part of their design, part of their master plan... Tony didn't have a great history with situations like that. It usually involved a lot of pain and possibly death. He'd prefer to avoid both this time, if at all possible. For now, he just needed to keep Zola talking. Let him really get into the gloating monologue villains like him were so prone to. In Tony's head was a mental clock, ticking down how long he might have been asleep to how long it would take his friends to notice he was missing, and from there to how long it would take the quinjet to get to him (New York to Moscow was about forty-eight hundred miles, the quinjet could hit mach four in a pinch, puts them at an hour forty, give or take). He just had to hold on. And keep Zola distracted.

“Why does no one appreciate the doctorates, seriously,” Tony snarked. “I've got more than you, you mutated wannabe MODOK. Yet here you are, calling yourself 'Dr. Zola' and I'm 'Mr. Stark'.”

The smile that split Zola's lips was more disgusting than the half-human half-mech bags of flesh floating in vats all around them. Tony made a note never to get Zola to smile ever again.

“Dr. Stark, of course.” Zola said, sickeningly sweet.

Nausea churned over in Tony's cut. His hands curled into fists, trying to resist the urge to pull at the chains, check their strength, and failing. The chains didn't give way, of course. He was spread eagle, legs chained to the floor at his ankles and arms spread out above his head by his wrists. His hands were numb, but he wasn't sure if that was poor circulation or the cold. He couldn't feel his nose, either, so there was a chance it was from the cold.

“Dr. Stark, I noticed you appreciating my design earlier. Tell me, what do you think? Are you impressed?”

Tony snorted, still trying for nonchalance. His head still hurt, pounding hurt, and his teeth were chattering. Vaguely Tony was concerned for his physical state. He shouldn't be so cold, not unless they had been keeping him down here for days on end and he had been unconscious this whole time. Or maybe they were drugging him, something that fucked with his body temperature regulation.

“It's pretty nice.” Tony shrugged one shoulder as best he could, ignoring the flash of pain there. Pins and needles like he'd never felt them were surging underneath every inch of his skin, now that he was moving. What had Zola done to him while he was out? Had he taken the RT out and then replaced it? Why bother?

Tony waved an easy hand above the shackles on his wrist. “Personally, I'm not a fan of the whole dungeon-chic thing, but I really think you pull it off. Very Dr. Frankenstein, which—oh, I assumed that's what you were going for, right?”

Zola's eyes didn't even narrow. He was still smiling that disgusting smile of his, still gloating. Tony fought against the urge to swallow nervously and lost. Whatever Zola was up to, he was sure of his victory.

“Feeling light-headed, still, _Dr_. Stark?” He paused, studying Tony. If he had a neck with which to turn his head, Tony had the distinct feeling he'd be cocking it at him. “Pins and needles? Perhaps cold? These are all very normal side-effects.”

Tony couldn't help it. He bit. “Side-effects?”

Zola smiled calmly. “Of undergoing dialysis.”

Tony jerked, looking around. He wasn't. He wasn't hooked up to anything. But then he twitched too hard, pulled at his side, and he _felt it_. It wasn't there, not now, but it _had been_. Punctures into his veins, large punctures and prolific, which were bandaged over now. Struggling against his bonds, Tony craned his head to look down at his sides. Oh, God. What had Zola been doing to him?

“Don't worry, your blood is clean. We added nothing.”

“For some reason, I'm not reassured,” Tony bit out.

This just seemed to amuse Zola. The gross digitized head of his bobbed around in his chest, almost gleefully. “Ah, you don't understand yet, do you, Dr. Stark? Much more of this and I will not respect you enough to continue using the honorific. For you see, Dr. Stark: it is not something we wish to add to your blood, oh no.”

And then Tony got it.

“It's something in my blood.”

Zola grinned, virtual teeth gleaming electrically.

“You're after Extremis.”

Zola's smile turned predatory, his eyes glinting in this subterranean hell.

“Not 'after', Dr. Stark. 'Found.' 'Have.' 'In complete possession of.' You don't think I would have taken the risk of waking you before all but the most minor stages of my plan were complete, do you?”

Absently Tony reached out to check and see how long he'd been awake so far, searching for his internal clock. He jerked violently. It wasn't there. Tony reached out again. The world spun around him. _Nothing_ was there. _Extremis wasn't there_.

“ _What have you done to me_?!” Tony cried out.

Zola looked downright disappointed in Tony. For some odd reason, Tony couldn't exactly find it within him to care.

“I have neutralized your ability to use Extremis, Tony Stark. For that was what the dialysis was for. I did not scrub your blood of excess water: from all accounts I've heard, your kidneys continue to function wonderfully, though I do not know how your liver has managed to survive after all those years of excess. But I digress.”

 _Digress all you want_ , Tony thought. The longer Zola talked, the more tangents he went off on, the more likely the Avengers would reach him, would save him.

Zola was still talking. Windbag. He was worse than the Mandarin. “No, Dr. Stark. I scrubbed Extremis from your blood.”

Behind Zola, as if on cue, several armors stepped forward. Completed armors. Their eyes glowed red, cutting through the dim, murky light of the basement.

“Do you like them, Dr. Stark? I needed a sample of your genetic sequence, you see, because I heard a little rumor about Extremis only working on the very few. The special. These armors are very special, too. It was simple to get a sample from you, in all those many times you spilt blood fighting my machines. Why do you think I made the energy signatures of my robots so similar to yours? To guarantee that your systems would pick it up, that you would rush out to the scene so that I might get my sample.” Zola tsked. Tony swore to himself that the first thing he did when he got out of these chains was punch the sniveling little weasel right in his fat, stupid head.

“Once I got a sample of your genetic material—which was from the _very first time_ you fought one of my drones; so terribly sloppy—I was able to start building my organic units. They're beautiful, aren't they?” One of the armors leaned in to Zola, allowing him to caress it, like a dog. Tony shuddered.

“You don't find them beautiful, Dr. Stark?” Zola fixed his gaze on Tony. Then he gestured behind him, smile gleaming, at the vats of muscular organic material. “But they are you, Tony Stark! These are your children! Does this not fill you with pride? Awe?”

“Fills me with a pretty strong urge to vomit, so I'd stay back, if I were you,” Tony cautioned. He wasn't even lying. Looking at those vats, knowing all that tissue and flesh and muscle and sinew came from _him_ was the most disgusting, horrifying thing he'd seen in a long time. But he couldn't think about that right now. He had to stay focused. Zola had been talking for maybe fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. He just had to keep him going, and hope someone had realized he'd disappeared sooner rather than later. Rhodey or Pepper would have noticed first, probably. No more than a day could have passed before they would have noticed. Tony was sure of it.

Zola sniffed at Tony, turning up his nose at him. As well as a head without a neck could turn its nose up at someone.

“I should have known a man who keeps the company you do wouldn't appreciate such beauty. Ah, well. What a waste.”

He was talking about Steve. Of course he was, this was one of Steve's arch-nemeses. The madman had been after Steve's genetic material for years. But now he was settling for Tony's. Shit, or was he? Was this a trap? Was Tony bait?

Zola smiled again. Tony wanted to punch his gigantic teeth out. He made a promise to himself that he would get to do that as soon as he got out of here. It was just hard to plan his escape when Zola was standing right there, grinning at him. The armors skulking around him like overly-affectionate panthers weren't helping matters. And Tony was cut off from Extremis, which was hurting more than Tony ever thought it would. Tony twitched at his restraints again, ignoring his lungs crying out for air as his body pulled against them. He went limp after a second, gasping for air, spots swimming so densely through his vision he thought he might blackout. He wasn't getting out of here anytime soon. Not without help.

A small dinging noise, like a kitchen egg timer, went off. Zola grinned wider. Looked like his time was up.

“Did you hear that, Dr. Stark?” Tony said nothing. “That was the signal for your last extraction. One more run through the dialysis machine, and I will have entirely scrubbed your blood of the last of the Extremis formula.”

“And then you're going to set me off on a nice cushy jet back to the states, right?” Tony guessed.

Zola kept smiling. “Personally, I see no reason to give you your blood back, once I have everything I need from it. I think I'll keep it. As a souvenir. And, of course, as extra samples, just in case the originals get corrupted. You're a scientist, Dr. Stark! You should understand the benefits of redundancies. Safety first!”

Tony groaned, head hanging forward. “Safety first,” he mumbled. Shit. He needed to get out of here now. He had exactly zero ideas.

The grotesque form of Zola was stumbling forward. One of his hands was held out greedily toward Tony, grasping and clenching excitedly. The other was grasped around a long section of hose. Blearily Tony traced it back to its source. The dialysis machine. Of course.

Zola's hand wrapped around his side, ripping away the gauze and tape that had been covering the earlier puncture wounds. Tony straggled, strained every muscle in his body away from Zola, away from that length of tubing. But it was no good. The chains held him fast, giving him no more than a half inch slack to move away. Zola seemed to be getting great delight in his struggling, in his fear. Tony struggled harder, straining at the chains, yanking his wrists has hard as he could. A snap, and _fuck_ , searing white pain, impossible, nauseating pain. Tony went completely limp, cries surging up from his throat and out clenched teeth. His wrist. He'd broken his wrist.

Zola's laughter filled his ears, the first thing he could hear over the ringing of that _snapcrunch_ of his wrist breaking. “This won't be so bad, Dr. Stark,” Zola reassured him. “Ever suffered from cardiac arrest?”

“Once or twice,” he managed to grit out.

Pain in his side, now. Zola was shoving the needles in with little regard for the surrounding skin or tissue, moving them around sporadically until he caught a vein. The lines jumped, red spurting into them. Zola grinned and backed away. Tony wanted to be sick, wanted to rip the invading tubes out of his side. But he couldn't escape the chains, couldn't even move without fear of upsetting his broken wrist and sending a fresh wave of pain and nausea through him.

Zola was still speaking. “Ah, then you know. Not so bad.”

Cardiac arrest was one of the top five worst pains Tony had ever experienced in his life. Tony wasn't sure if he should be insulted because Zola didn't know or because Zola was lying to him.

A crash above him. Zola was bustling around the dialysis machine, hooking up one of his loyal little armors to it. Tony watched as his blood trickled out of him, through the piping, into the machine, and then into the robot. His stomach rolled. His vision flickered. It wasn't going to be long now. Three liters: that was all he could lose. Three liters, maybe four, and he went into cardiac arrest. Tony stared at his blood in the piping. Three liters.

Another crash. Explosions. Tony jerked his head up, like he could see through the solid floor above his head. Zola seemed unconcerned. If anything, he seemed pleased.

“That would be your friends, I imagine,” Zola hummed. “Do you think the good Captain is with them?”

“Bucky? Sure,” Tony gritted out.

That at least evoked a reaction from Zola. He turned and glared at Tony, teeth bared. Those stupid fucking teeth.

“You know who I mean, Stark. _Your_ Captain. Captain Steven Rogers. Do you think he is up there, trying desperately to rescue you?” Zola laughed. Tony wanted to bleach the sound from his ears. “You two are so close. On every newspaper together. Every interview. Running the Avengers, side-by-side. And then, you fight. You two have a dispute, and it brings the Avengers to its knees. What do you think would happen if he didn't have you? What do you think would happen if he found you, dead? Just a minute. Too. Late.” Zola walked his fingers across the dialysis machine, punctuating his last words with a little skip of them each time.

“That's why you're the perfect specimen, Tony Stark. You're no super-soldier, but I can adjust. I can modernize. Hence, the beautiful creatures you see around you. And stealing you away comes with such a wonderful bonus: the Captain. I take you, the easier target, and I use you. I make things from you. I pump you dry, suck all the juice of your utility out of you, and then I cast the husk aside. And the Captain will come for that husk. He will die trying to get to it, to get to _you_. And then I will have my army of obedient little Tony Stark robots defeat the Captain, once and for all. It's poetic! It's beautiful!”

“I think you forgot what pretty looked like a long time ago, judging by your face,” Tony mumbled. His vision was getting spottier. His head heavy. The skin on his face felt like it was going to separate and float away.

His head dropped between his shoulders and he found he couldn't lift it. He could feel the whiteness of his face. Lazily Tony managed to peer out from the slits of his eyelids to watch his blood leave him. Still going, still pumping out. Stupid fucking blood. Couldn't stay where it belonged.

“Do you think your Captain will get here in time to rescue you?”

“Are you still talking?” Tony slurred.

Zola ignored him. “It is already too late. My organic armors are making quick work of your Avengers friends, I'm sure. They came in with their powers and their strategy, but what are they to do against an _army_ of Tony Starks?! Nothing! They can do nothing!”

Another explosion above him, rattling the compound. _Steve_. Tony didn't pray, but right now he kinda wished he did, so he could do _something_ to try and protect Steve, to make sure he didn't get hurt. _Stay safe_ , he tried to whisper to Steve. _Don't do this for me. Don't die for me. I'm not worth it_.

A glimmer at the edge of Tony's vision. Zola's back. He wondered if Zola had some sort of weakness there. If he could get close enough, maybe kick him over- Tony panned his eyes up. And saw himself, chained up.

“I'm on the network,” Tony mumbled.

“What?”

Tony's eyes snapped open, suddenly clarity flushing through his system.

“You put me on the network.”

A surge: Tony reaching out through his blood— _his blood—_ inside the armor behind Zola. He reached up with the armor's arm and grabbed Zola by his ugly fucking face, squeezing tight. Zola made a sound like a stuffed pig.

“I'm in your network,” Tony grinned. “ _I'm_ in control.”

With one smooth movement Tony flung the arm of the armor, sending Zola crashing across the room into the far wall.

Reaching out with Extremis, Tony flicked the dialysis machine in reverse. He needed his blood back if he was going to get out of here. At the same time, he took direct control of the two armors that had been down here with Zola, bringing them to him and snapping the chains that bound him. Gingerly he lifted himself up with the armor—and whoa, it was like double-vision, trying to embody and control something that was looking at himself—and settled himself into the arms of the organic monstrosity. Like a momma gorilla cradling her baby to her chest. Tony wasn't a fan of the whole baby-gorilla analogy, but with a broken wrist and severely depleted blood supply, plus whatever unknown cocktail of drugs Zola had been keeping him on, Tony would take what he could get.

While he waited for his blood to finish flowing back into his body, Tony settled against the warm metal chest of the armor and sent his mind afield. He could feel _every_ armor on the network, and that network consisted of every armor made with his tissue.

 _Thousands_ of them.

The compound was under attack, like he and Zola had surmised. Taking control of the optical sensors of some of the machines, Tony gathered a picture of the battle as quickly as he could. The quinjet was off in a corner, far away from the battle, and the Avengers were in the middle of it all, doing their thing. Carol, Jess, Sam, Rhodey, and Spiderman were handling the arial attacks, while Luke, Danny, Bucky, Natasha, and Clint were on the ground. Tony was glad to see none of the kids were there.

But up at the front of them all, bellowing with rage and cleaving armors in two like some kind of mad Greek god, some berserker warrior, was Steve. His fury took Tony's breath away. His eyes turned to Tony's, locking on. With a rush of rage and sorrow, Steve moved forward and ripped him in two.

Tony blinked and jerked back, falling heavily against the armor he was cradled in. He had lost track of what he was looking through, where he really was, for a moment there. Right. He had control of the armors. Now was the time to do some good with them.

With one mental flip switched, Tony stopped all the armors in their tracks. The Avengers took down two or three before they stopped, too, realizing something was happening. Below their feet, Tony scrambled to try and figure out where the vocal controls were on these monsters, if there were any.

“ _Zola_!” Steve screamed. “Show yourself!”

“Steve!” Tony crowed with triumph. Through the eyes of the armor that he had finally made speak, Tony watched as Steve turned to it, confusion plain on his face.

“Robot?”

“Steve! It's Tony!”

Tony hadn't expected Steve's entire face to collapse like that. “Tony?” his voice cracked. He stumbled forward a few steps towards the armor, hands limp at his sides.

“Not, not physically me. Extremis. Took control of the armors. Long story. Hey, listen! I think I'm right under your feet. Maybe not right under. In a basement. I shut down all the armors on the network, but I don't know-”

A roar. Then an impact. The entire building shook, including the basement Tony was still in. He blinked, coming back into himself for a moment to check how he was doing. The dialysis machine had stopped, blood back in his body. He was fucking freezing, but it would have to do for now. The bigger problem was Zola. With the wave of his hand Tony sent the armor not holding him to check on the man that he had thrown so carelessly away. While the armor did that, Tony occupied himself with removing the piping from his veins and patching himself up. He controlled the armor so it brought him over to one of the workbenches Zola had set up. Reaching gingerly down, Tony grabbed some gauze and medical tape. Sloppily he wrapped it around his side, one-handed. It'd have to do for now.

The armor Tony had sent away started relaying information back to him. It'd reached the far wall of the basement and found nothing. There was debris and rubble, obvious signs that Zola's body had been flung through there, but no Zola. Well shit.

“Hey Steve?” Tony spoke through the armor up top again. Steve turned back to him from where he'd been distracted by the giant implosion.

“Yeah Tony?”

“Zola's gone.”

Carefully Tony reached down again with his good hand, grabbing some pieces of metal and more medical gauze and tape. Gingerly he made himself a splint for his broken wrist. He wasn't even going to try and set it now—Steve could do that for him later. He just needed to tie it up enough so that he wasn't seeing stars every time he moved. Ripping the tape with his teeth, Tony turned his attention back to the surface.

Oh. Okay then. Giant armor monster organic freak them was crawling its way out of the hole where half the compound had just imploded in on itself. That was. Fantastic.

“Tony?” Steve was turned facing the monster, but leaning back toward the armor Tony was speaking through.

“Yeah Steve?” Tony kept his tone light.

“You seeing this?”

With one last tug Tony secured his wrist as best he was going to. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and flared out his senses. He could touch every armor in the compound, control it in a loose hive mind. They would work for him, might for him, every one of them, and they were autonomous enough that he didn't have to try and divide his attention between each of them. He couldn't touch this new monster crawling from the depths of Zola's id, but that was okay: he had an army.

“Don't worry, honey,” Tony promised. “I'm here to help.”

* * *

Steve had almost collapsed when that armor had spoke to him, saying it was Tony. He thought for sure he had gotten here too late, that Zola had succeeded at whatever mad game he was playing at and done _something_ grotesque and awful. Killed Tony and trapped his diffused consciousness in a thousand pale imitations of organic armors; maybe even trapped Tony inside the armors, bits and pieces of him cut up and stuffed into those metal prisons.

But then Tony had hurried onwards, explained in a rush that he was still _here_ , as _him_ , just below Steve's feet. And Steve had almost run to him, almost abandoned everything to just get Tony safe.

Then fifty percent of the compound had imploded and a giant mutated monster-robot crawled out of the hole, so Steve was pretty focused on that right now.

Steve gaped up at the thing, trying to get a scope for scale. It must have been four stories tall, at least, and had the proportions of Luke Cage after a good pump in the gym. Except it wasn't held together as tightly as Luke. Its skin was drooping, hanging, sloppy. Like the whole thing was somehow melting in the frigid Russian October, held together only by the patchwork of armor dotted across its body. The metal armor formed a kind of lattice or scaffolding for the thing, holding its gooey organic bits together.

A repulsor beam the size of a sedan shot across the field, exploding ten feet from Steve's boot. The force of it sent him flying, head over heels a hundred feet downfield. Steve landed hard on the frozen ground, but got up quick. The organic armor monster might be big, but that didn't mean it was slow. And apparently the armor squeezing together its organic parts was good for more than just scaffolding. It was weaponized, too.

“Avengers! Take down the big one! That's the priority!” Steve shouted.

The Avengers were already on the move: Carol blasting it with her energy beams, Hawkeye aiming for the chinks in its armor and especially vulnerable-looking joints. Luke and Danny had teamed up with Spiderman, the young man spinning them yards and yards and yards of web, while Luke and Danny ran circles around the thing's legs. Steve started to rush forward, positronic shield and assault rifle at the ready. The faster they took down this thing, the faster he could get to Tony.

As Steve ran across the open field toward the monster, the hundred of armors that they had been previously fighting against started to rise up around him. He spared them a quick glance, but they weren't attacking the Avengers. Their focus was entirely on the monster. Steve slowed to a jog as he watched them move: like a single unit, but not all exactly the same. There was independence to them: they were working _together_ , not just one move multiplied a thousand times. A team of them was aiming at the eyes and mouth, another group focused on taking out the repulsor ports on the monster's palms, and another on its feet. Still two more groups of armors were working together: the first to peel back the pieces of armor covering the monster's flesh, the second to scramble inside and punch holes through it in the gaps.

Steve stared in awe at the display. _Tony_ was doing that. Tony, who had been kidnapped, who was probably injured and weak, was doing that. All of that. Steve scrubbed at his face and pushed down the longing in his gut. He'd always known Tony was amazing. Seeing evidence of that fact just made him feel differently now. Now that he thought: maybe that could be his. Maybe Tony could be his.

With a roar Steve rushed forward and joined the fray, swinging his positronic shield as hard as he could at the monster. It hit hard under one arm, making the creature screech with pain. Even as the shield returned to Steve he was lifting his assault rifle, peppering the monster with bullets. They wouldn't do much damage on their own, judging by its size, but if he used them strategically he might be able to do some good.

The monster was stumbling now, great big armored legs in a tangle of web thanks to Luke, Danny, and Spiderman's efforts. As it started to jerk forward, Danny and Luke were running between its legs, avoiding getting stomped on by a pretty narrow margin. Once they were in position behind one of the knees, Luke held out his hands in a cage for Danny to hop on. Danny jumped, and Luke propelled him up, muscles in his back and arms rippling with the force of it. Danny shouted as he fell forward, striking the back of the beast's knee with all the force of his mythical fists. He slid down the leg and into Luke's guiding arms as the beast bellowed and began to careen forward in earnest. Luke and Danny beat a hasty retreat the other direction, escaping Steve's line of sight.

Carol and Clint had teamed up to take out the beast's eyes. They were originally covered in armor plating, but the armors that Tony had taken control of were ripping that armor off, prying it loose from where it seemed to be fused to the skin. Bloody hunks of flesh crashed down with the pieces of torn away armor, still attached, as the Tony-controlled robots continued their work. Carol was blasting the left eye, energy from her pounding on a single spot until the eye was a bubbling, destroyed mess. Once it was sufficiently blasted, Carol flew into, shouting the whole time. A second later and the mostly destroyed eyeball popped straight out of the beast's head, plummeting the four stories to the ground. The beast crushed it between his armored toes with his next bumbling step.

Carol flew down to Steve for a moment, shaking her arms free of organic ooze.

“This better be worth it,” she grumbled.

Steve stared at Carol, faintly aghast. “Uh. Good work. Ms. Marvel.”

Carol just sighed and picked several large chunks of retina out of her hair. Then she was back in the air, flying over to assist Clint. Who didn't seem to need much assistance at the moment. Apparently inspired by Carol's little display, Clint had fired a series of grappling hook arrows into the beast's other eye, and then jumped off. The beast roared, stumbling forward more. The eye wasn't coming out, though. Clint landed on the ground and hauled at the rope, but it didn't give. A moment later Luke, Carol, and Danny showed up at his side and tugged with him. The eye ejected itself from socket with an audible pop, even above the din of battle. The beast roared again as the eyeball hurtled through the air, nerve endings spinning behind it in the wind like the tail of a particularly horrifying kite.

The armor bots that a, as-yet-unseen Tony was controlling were holding fast to the beast's arms, disassembling the repulsor ports there and holding them out, rendering the beast unable to use them at all. As more and more pieces of metal rained down from the sky, the robots ripping apart the armor covering the beast's hands, larger and larger sloughs of organic matter were dropping to the ground with him. Steve was pretty sure he saw a finger fall from one hand, a thumb from another.

Carol swooped past him again, flipping gooey hair from her face. “Hey, I think I'm going to try and explode its brain. Want to help? I can give you a lift.”

Steve considered this. “No.”

Carol grinned and shot him a salute. “Suit yourself.”

No, Steve didn't have time for the beast. He was a distraction, after all. What he needed to do was try and find Zola. And if he happened to find Tony along the way, all the better.

“Tony!” he shouted, hoping Tony would pick up on it. Sure enough, a single armor unit broke off and flew to Steve.

“Cap! Sorry, feeling woozy, having trouble locking back into the Avengers comms right now.”

“Don't worry about it,” Steve reassured the armor. “Tony: I need to know where Zola went.”

Something that sounded like a growl of frustration, though coming from the distorted, half-mechanical vocal cords of the armor unit was decidedly more frightening. Steve shook off his worry over Tony's physical state and continued moving, heading for the rubble of the warehouse. There were still sections of it standing: it was possible Zola's getaway vehicle was in one of those areas, somewhere.

“I lost him, Steve. Managed to shake him, but by the time I set myself to rights he was gone.”

“That's alright,” Steve again reassured him. “You come first. There's always another day to get him.”

“I'm scanning for him. Gimme a minute. My systems are all...” Tony trailed off. Steve managed to hit the outer edge of one intact side of the old warehouse. He stormed in, armor at his side.

There were people inside, but they appeared to mostly be civilian workers and civilian scientists. Steve didn't see anyone who might be dangerous, though he stayed on alert, just in case.

“Do any of you folks know where Zola is?”

Dead silence. The civilians stared at Steve with confusion, fear, and a complete lack of comprehension. Steve sighed. Dang it. Russian, right. He knew _some_ Russian.

“Где Zola?” he tried. He was pretty sure that was right.

That seemed to be close enough to right, because the civilians didn't seem so lost, now. Unfortunately, they were all shaking their heads.

“Я не знаю, Мы не знаем.” _I don't know, We don't know_.

Steve sighed. It had been worth a shot. Moving quickly, Steve continued through the building, keeping one eye on the civilians. They would need to be detained and questioned later. For now, though, Steve's number one focus was on finding Zola.

“Where did you see him last, Tony?”

“Down here in the basement with me, but he's not- _Shit_ , Steve. Outside, outside now. No, not that way, the way you were facing.”

Spinning around from where he had been about to run out the door he had come in, Steve scanned the wall in front of him. There, another door. Steve ran forward at a dead sprint. He burst through the door with his shield at the ready, eyes scanning the bleak horizon as quickly as they could.

 _There_. In the air. A rocket ship. Nearly howling with frustration, Steve hurled his shield as hard as he could at the rocket. In the same movement he pulled his assault rifle level with his eye and started firing, hoping he might get just one lucky shot. But Zola just moved steadily further and further away, up into the sky. Steve dropped the gun to grab the shield as it came back to him, having hit nothing. At least that was one benefit of the positronic: he didn't have to go fishing for the shield when it missed its target.

“He's gone,” Steve cried. “He's gone. Again.”

“There you are.”

That had been _Tony's_ voice. Not some armor relaying his words, lacking all humanity. It was Tony.

Steve spun around, heart in his throat. Tony was sitting in the arms of one of the armor units, looking like some sort of technological king. Except for the fact that he looked beat all to hell, too. His skin was pale, ashen white, and his left hand was curled up into his chest, tied off in a split. Even at this distance Steve could see it hanging at an odd angle. Thank goodness Tony hadn't tried to set it himself, at least. He had a bandage peaking out from his side, too, though Steve wasn't sure what injury that was hiding.

Tony must have done something with his mind, because the armor that had been carrying him around moved to kneel down on the ground, gently setting him onto his feet. Tony wobbled a little bit, holding onto the armor for support, but he got his feet under him. It wasn't until he took a step forward that Steve realized what he was trying to do and got his own ass in gear.

Steve rushed across the frozen ground, legs eating up the yards in seconds. He scooped Tony up into his arms before the other man had managed to take two steps. And then, because it seemed right, Steve kissed him.

Tony kissed back immediately, hungrily, tongue plundering Steve's mouth with all the force he could muster. Steve gripped him tight, half keeping him upright, half because he couldn't help himself, because Tony was _alive_ and _safe_ and he'd been denying himself this all this time, because he loved Tony and wanted to be with him, to wipe away every stupid action and cruel word and just _be_ with him.

Tony's arms had come up to wrap around Steve's neck, or at least drape over his shoulders. Steve broke, intending to pull away to talk about this, but Tony was tugging him back in, mouth hungry. Steve couldn't find it within him to resist, kissing Tony again for all he was worth, hands gripping Tony's sides with nearly deadly force.

He must have bumped Tony, or moved a little wrong, because Tony pulled back with a small cry of pain. “Sorry,” he whispered. “It's my wrist.”

Gently Steve extracted himself from Tony, although he still held him tight—mostly to make sure Tony stayed upright.

“Damn it, Tony: you're a mess.”

Tony laughed, shrugged. “Sorry. That's what I get for answering those damn Craigslist ads again.”

“You're crackers,” Steve whispered.

“You're bananas,” Tony teased back.

A roar and a earth-shaking crash. Steve held onto Tony tight, looking into his eyes. “I think the Avengers just took down the monster Zola sicced on us,” he explained.

Tony smirked. “Yeah. I got a look at it. Through the armors, you know.”

“Right.”

Tony stumbled again, face going a little pale. Steve panicked, guilt and fear surging through his system. “Sorry, sorry. Do you need to sit? I can carry you over to the quinjet...”

But Tony waved away his concern. “It's fine. Just. Recalibrating. Zola was sucking my blood out and taking the Extremis from it.”

“ _What_? Tony, you need a transfusion-”

“No, no. I got it back.”

Steve stared incredulously at Tony. “You got it 'back'?”

Tony shrugged. “He was taking it, I took over, I got it back. I'll explain it all later, honestly. But hey, listen, I'm sorry I dragged you into all this-”

“ _You're_ sorry?” Steve gaped at Tony. He shifted him in his arms, making sure to not jostle Tony too harshly. “Tony, this is all my fault. Zola is my responsibility; if it weren't for me, he would have never thought to go after you-”

Tony shook his head. “No, it's my fault getting snatched. And for not realizing who was behind the armored attacks earlier, what this was all building towards. If I had gotten it sooner, if I hadn't ignored you when you said it might be about Extremis-”

“I'm the one who wasn't seeking him out vigorously enough, Tony,” Steve protested. “If I had been in Russian doing my job, instead of...” he trailed off. _Instead of being with you_.

Tony coughed and dropped his eyes. “Yeah, well. I think that part's my fault, too.”

Steve practically growled with frustration, but Tony was looking weak: so weak. Gently Steve shifted Tony in his arms again, pulling him closer this time.

“Hey,” he grumbled. He nudged Tony's forehead with his own, until Tony looked at him. “I've got you,” Steve whispered. He held Tony tight, at the same time trying to avoid putting too much pressure on his injuries. Even though he only had the wrap on his side and the broken wrist, Tony looked weak. Too weak. But it was okay, because Steve had him, now.

“Think I got you first,” Tony teased.

“Huh?”

The two armors around Steve rattled, almost flexing. He sighed and held Tony closer, pressing his lips to Tony's head. “Oh, those,” he mumbled into Tony's hair. “I guess they helped.”

“Helped?!” Tony squeaked. He tried to struggle away from Steve, though in his weakened state he didn't manage much, and Steve wasn't about to let him go. He settled back against Steve's chest, pouting expressively. “Seeing as Zola was using me as bait to get to you, and you almost got your ass handed to you without my help, I think I was the one who did the rescuing.”

“Glad to see a day with Zola didn't damage your humility,” Steve replied wryly. But he couldn't put any heat behind the words, because he was so relieved to have Tony in his arms, safe, whole.

“I'll give you twenty-eighty. _Maybe_ twenty-five-seventy-five. But that's the highest I'm going.”

“Would kissing you again shut you up?” Steve grumbled. Then he froze, because... he wasn't sure. It had been the heat of battle, they hadn't talked about it. Tony was probably still woozy from whatever Zola had done to him, and high on adrenaline from the fight. They needed to sit down, be clear-headed about this.

And then Tony pulled back just enough to look at Steve and murmured with a grin: “It's worth a shot.” And Steve shoved all his rational concerns aside and swooped Tony up into another spine-melting kiss.

“Uh, guys?”

Tony was kissing him, and kissing him, and Steve understood exactly what he was feeling, because he was feeling the same thing: that it felt _so good_ to be kissing him, that they had denied themselves this simple pleasure for so long and what was _wrong_ with them? That all Steve wanted to do, from here on out, was kiss Tony. Beard-burn be damned.

“So. Tony's wrist looks pretty broken, there. From what I can see of it thrown over your shoulder, Steve.”

Reluctantly, Steve pulled away from Tony to address Bucky. He was standing impatiently in the threshold of the building, arms crossed and eyebrows raised into his messy hair.

“We need to get the workers into custody,” Steve ordered without taking his arms from Tony. “Interview them. You and Natasha should handle that—I don't think any of them speak English. And we need to gather all the data we can from the labs. Get Clint and Jess on that, they'll know the most about extracting what they can. Zola escaped, but he hasn't gotten far. Not yet. We need to-”

“Whoa, whoa.” Bucky held his hands out in front of him. “First of all, I'm Captain America, and I already gave all those orders. Second of all, Zola's in the wind: he's vulnerable. We can give it eight hours before we start on it again. And third, you two look like you need the eight hours, because like I said: that's definitely a broken wrist Stark's nursing, not to mention what else he's got.”

Steve frowned. Bucky was right. Mostly. About getting some rest, about making sure Tony was patched up, he was right about that. But they needed to start tracking Zola down _now_ , before he had any time to regroup, to find a new hole to crawl into and plot his return. Steve would have to do that on his own, though, judging by the amount of work the Avengers had to handle here, and the amount of rest and recuperation Tony sorely needed.

“Let's get you back to the quinjet,” Steve said in response, to Tony rather than Bucky. Tony grumbled and rolled his eyes but nodded. That only made Steve frown more: if Tony was agreeing to medical treatment, he must be in a lot of pain. “Can you get Jess?” he asked Bucky. “I'd like her to help calm Tony while we set his wrist.”

Then without waiting to hear a word of protest from either Tony or Bucky, Steve scooped Tony up and started carrying him bridal-style to the quinjet. As they passed Bucky, Steve's keen hearing heard him mumbling “Soon for that, isn't it?” Steve ignored him. He had Tony safe and in his arms. Everything else could be dealt with in its own time.

* * *

Tony was shaking off the last of Jess' happy-pheromones as he stepped aboard the quinjet with the others. Steve had called in a SHIELD evac team, which would be coming to round up the prisoners-cum-witnesses in a matter of minutes (they had a base in Moscow as part of a good-will gesture between the countries). Spiderman and Danny were waiting for them with the civilians. Spiderman had drawn the short-straw, and Danny had volunteered, for whatever reason.

Tony shook his head again, trying to get himself on sound footing. Between the sedatives Zola had him on for over a day, the blood loss (and then regaining), and Jess' pheromones, he was a little muddle-headed—understandably so, he figured. Steve's hand pressing gently on the small of his back probably wasn't helping any, though Tony was telling himself that wasn't affecting him in the slightest.

Truth was, he wasn't sure where he stood with Steve, even now. Yeah, they had kissed—several times, and _wow_ Tony hadn't realized Steve would be that passionate, that commanding; he'd be lying if he said it wasn't massively hot—but what did that mean? Post-battle adrenaline, maybe. Relief at seeing your best friend alive and well. They had masturbated with the vibrator after a battle. Post-battle kissing might not mean anymore than what they had done then.

But then again, before he had gotten kidnapped Rhodey had been trying to tell him something. About Steve and how maybe Tony had been right all along, about Steve being interested in him, about him being _sexually_ interested in him. Tony just had to... feel him out, somehow.

Gingerly Tony settled into one of the flight chairs of the quinjet, careful of his side and wrapped-up wrist. Figured his injuries would be on opposite sides of each other: a nice symmetry for his sudden bouts of horrible pain. Thank you, Zola. Though really the wrist was Tony's own damn fault.

To Tony's surprise, Steve took the seat directly next to him, rather than up at the front with Bucky. Tony glanced over, sure Steve would be looking straight ahead, not acknowledging the maneuver. But no: Steve was staring right at him, open concern and serious contemplation etched across his face. Tony's mouth went dry. Maybe they _were_ really doing this? Maybe Steve _did_ return his feelings.

Looking away, Tony sunk into the cushions of his seat for take-off and thought about that. Halfway through, he glanced back over at Steve. He was still watching Tony carefully. Tentatively, Tony reached his good hand out to him. Immediately Steve's hand shot up and took hold, almost hard enough to hurt. Tony smiled, and Steve smiled shakily back. Tony's breath caught in his chest, his heart felt like it was stopping—except no, bad simile, he'd come too close to that today and that fucking _hurt_. This felt good: this felt _great_.

Holy shit, Steve Rogers was holding his hand and smiling at him. Tony didn't know what to do with that. Correction: he didn't know what to do with that which wouldn't horribly fuck everything back up. Maybe he should just sit here quietly and keep smiling. That was probably his safest best.

Except now he was thrumming with the energy of discovery, of victory, of finding something _new_ and being _right_. Tony needed to explore. He needed to test. He needed to examine this from every angle, and this was Steve: he needed to examine _him_ from every angle. Tony licked his lips, gaze drifting down to Steve's beautifully red ones. _Every. Angle._

The second the quinjet leveled off Tony undid his seatbelt and stood. Steve followed him immediately, seemingly reading his mind. Then again, he could probably smell it on him. Not for the first time, Tony was glad Wolverine had chose to sit this mission out.

Ignoring the looks the other Avengers were shooting them—or decidedly _not_ shooting them, in the case of Jess, Luke, and Rhodey—Tony hurried to the bathroom, Steve in tow. He thought he heard Steve mumble something about checking out the rest of Tony's injuries in private. From the front of the plane Clint started to say something, only to receive a sharp elbow to the nose. Steve pulled the door to the bathroom shut on Clint's sharp cry of pain.

Immediately Tony pulled Steve into a kiss. He had meant to talk this out, maybe. Well, he hadn't really meant to. But he _should_ try and talk this out, he knew that. Instead he just kissed Steve more, sucking him in, pulling his body flush with his. Tony shivered at the contact, felt _Steve_ shiver in response, and oh, _yes_ , how had Tony not been doing this, how had _Steve_ not been doing this, how fucking stupid were the two of them whenever they got together?

Tony's hands immediately went for Steve's belt. He had to stop, remembering his damn broken wrist, and then go at it again one-handed. Fuck, fuck, he needed Steve now, he needed everything about him, every inch of skin. He needed to catalogue and categorize and dissect every bit of Steve, to break him apart and put him back together.

“Steve,” Tony mumbled into the kiss. He wasn't sure what he was asking for: help undoing Steve's belt, or his own, or both. All Tony knew as he kissed and kissed and kissed Steve's lips was that he needed everything, right this instant.

“ _Tony_.” It was only how firmly Steve said his name that made Tony stop. He looked up, fingers on his right hand wrapped tight around Steve’s belt buckle, even as he could feel them trembling. He was crashing, hard, but he needed this right now. Before he slept, before he ate, before the RT made either of those things unnecessary, before he did anything else.

“Tony,” Steve said again, more quietly. His big hands wrapped around Tony’s, stopping them even as they continued to fiddle with Steve’s belt. “I...”

“Steve,” Tony groaned. He needed this. _P_ _l_ _ease Steve, just let me_ take _this._

But Steve was unrelenting. “Tony,” he said again. “This... This is real. For me. I can’t-” his voice cracked and he looked down. When he looked back up, his eyes were steely. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said forcefully.

“ _Steve_.” Tony groaned the name, Tony pleaded the name, Tony whispered the name. The look in Steve’s eyes, fuck, _fuck_. Tony should be strung up for putting that look there: that uncertainty, that unhappiness. “Steve: It’s real for me, too. It’s been real since...” Tony laughed, rolled his eyes. “It’s been real since it ended. Real from the start, but I didn’t realize it until it ended.”

Tony didn’t have to explain himself more. Because Steve was there, kissing him, unbuttoning his pants, shoving him against the wall of the tiny bathroom, _kissing_ him, _kissing him, kissing him..._ Tony couldn’t believe how good it felt to kiss Steve, couldn’t understand how he had denied himself all this time. But here it was, he had it, now: had Steve’s tongue in his mouth, had Steve’s lips over his, Steve’s teeth nipping at his lower lip, Steve’s breath ghosting gently against his cheek as he pulled back to gasp and groan before diving in for more.

“When we get back,” Tony groaned. “When we get back I'm going to fuck you.”

Steve gasped and thrust his hips against Tony, slamming him backwards against the wall of the tiny bathroom. Tony was moving with him, humping against him with abandon.

“I'm gonna fuck you,” Tony growled. His hand was on Steve's belt again, tugging it off. Steve finally reached down to help, fumbling the belt open. He gasped into the kiss, moving his hands to Tony's belt as soon as he could to rip that off, too. “I'm gonna stick this long cock of mine up your ass until you're screaming, until you're fucking howling. And then I'm going to fill you up with my cum, until you're fucking bursting with it, until it's leaking out of you until you're mine, until no one can go within two feet of you without smelling me.” With a growl Steve wrapped his arms around Tony, hauling him up, dropping his ass down onto the tiny sink and counter area of the bathroom. Tony laughed and grabbed at Steve's shoulders, stopping his ass from sliding down into the sink and getting himself stuck in a very awkward position. Steve helped, tugging him forward until his ass was on the edge of the sink, his groin lined up with Steve's. The wound was pulling uncomfortably at his side, but he was too hopped up on adrenaline and lust to care.

Their pants dropped with all due haste, Steve growling and fumbling with Tony's until he managed to pull them completely off. Then he stepped between Tony's legs and put a hand to the back of his neck, pulling him in for another deep kiss. Their erections slid against each other, precome smoothing the way. Steve moved his other hand between them, taking both of their hard lengths in his big, wide palm. Tony gasped, pulling away from the kiss as his hips moved in time with Steve's hand, thrusting up into that tight fist. His eyes squeezed shut as he focused more on the feel of Steve's cock against his, the delicious smoothness of the slide and heat from Steve's body.

[Pain at the back of his head: Steve was yanking on his hair firmly. Tony's eyes shot open, met Steve's steely gaze. “You look at me,” Steve growled.](http://shaliara.tumblr.com/post/90897666699/pain-at-the-back-of-his-head-steve-was-yanking-on)

Tony moaned and fell back, good hand flailing to brace himself against the mirror. He kept eye contact with Steve through it all, body trembling. Fuck. The things Steve did to him: things he never thought possible, things he never thought of _Steve_ doing.

With his free hand Tony tried to reach up and wrap it around Steve's forearm, the one that was holding tight on his hair, before he remembered the break. He moaned and switched hands, dropping his hand away from the mirror and grabbing Steve's bicep with his right hand. “Yes,” Tony promised. “Yeah, Steve. Yeah.” His fingers stroked gently at Steve's arms even as their thrusts grew more wild, their hips picking up speed against either man's conscious will. “It's you, Steve. I'm with you.”

Steve's body shook with that, his blonde eyelashes fluttering as he struggled to keep his eyes open. But he kept them open, kept them fixed on Tony's. And Tony didn't break eye contact again, not for one second. This was real to him—just as real as it was to Steve. And Tony was going to have to do a lot of work to convince him of that, to undo all the _bullshit_ he had fucked up in the last few months. But Tony was willing to do that. He was willing to work at it: for Steve. Always for Steve. Only for Steve.

A gasp and a shudder from Steve. Tony wanted to break eye contact, to look down between them at Steve's cock against his, at their erections pressed together between Steve's big hand, shiny and wet with their mingled precome, but he didn't. He kept staring into Steve's eyes, and Steve stared back at him. Even when Steve leaned in for another kiss, Tony kept looking: he was doing this with _Steve_ , with no one else, and he wanted to make it crystal clear that he knew this, that this was Steve, that he was here, present, right now. Steve broke the kiss, panting, and stayed there: forehead resting against Tony's, eyes locked. Their hips snapped against each other, Steve driving Tony's body painfully against the miniature sink and counter space. The mirror rattled with the force of Steve's thrusts, translated from Steve's body to Tony's, up his shoulder pressing tight against the mirror, keeping him grounded. Their panting breaths filled the tight space, louder even than the roar of the quinjet engines.

“You're mine,” Steve growled. Only it wasn't a growl. It wanted to be one, it tried to be one. But Tony's ears were too keen for that. He could hear the uncertainty in those two words, the question underlying them.

So he pulled tight on Steve's forearm, dug his fingernails in until it must hurt, until even those super-soldier nerves had to be registering it as pain. Tony was coming, he was coming even as he tried to speak, as he tried to maintain eye contact. “I'm yours,” and it came out as a whine, as a cry. “ _Yours_ ,” he moaned again, body shuddering, wracked with orgasm.

Steve slammed his lips against Tony, their faces colliding in a brutal kiss. Tony felt his lip split open again, the coppery taste of blood in both their mouths. But it was okay, it was so okay, it was better than fucking anything he'd had before, because orgasm was still shaking through his body, his brain firing a thousand signals of happiness and pleasure to override the pain.

Steve's thrusts continued, brutal and too much, shaking Tony's orgasm-limp body even more than before. It was all Tony could do to hold on, to wait it out, to try and give Steve everything he could, everything Steve deserved—because he deserved _everything_ , everything Tony could give, and more besides.

It was with a shuddering groan, too vulnerable and not vulnerable enough all at once that Steve came. Tony moved his hand from Steve's forearm to his face: stroking it, petting him, murmuring all sorts of sweet nothings about how good he was, about how good Tony was going to try to be, all for him, because Tony was his. Steve panted and jerked himself hard, squeezing the last few drops of cum onto his fists. His body shuddered one last time and then went limp, sliding heavily against Tony's for support.

Still shaking from his own orgasm, Tony brought both arms up, even the busted-up one, around Steve, pulling him close. He stroked at his back through the uniform, pressed his cheek to Steve's hair and hushed him, soft susurrus of soothing sound as Steve trembled in his arms.

“We need to get back.” Steve's words were mumbled against Tony's neck, causing a fresh shiver of pleasure to go through him. Reluctantly Steve pulled back and looked Tony in the eye. “We have to take care of this.”

Lazily Tony trailed his good hand down to Steve's limp dick, capturing some of the rapidly-cooling cum there. He brought it up to his mouth and lapped at it, watching as Steve's eyes focused intently on the movement of his tongue over his fingers. A movement out of the corner of his eye caused him to glance down: Steve was already getting hard again. Even with all they had done, there was still so much to learn. And Tony sure did love learning.

Seeming to realize his intention, Steve pulled pointedly away and started setting himself back to rights. With his uniform as back in place as it could be—which wasn't the best it'd ever looked, considering it was half blown to hell and covered in goop from the battle anyway—he turned his attention back to Tony. His eyes softened, and he reached a hand out to stroke at Tony's cheek. Tony let him, tilting his head into the caress, watching Steve watch him.

“I'm sorry,” Steve whispered.

“No,” Tony snapped. “No, none of that. Not your fault, not my fault. Whose fault is it, come on.”

“Zola's,” Steve growled. And oh, yeah: fucking _hot_. Vengeful, protective Steve was definitely something Tony wanted to see more of in his life. It might require him getting kidnapped a bit more than his current rate, but hey: he could work something out.

“We've got to go out there,” Steve started again, jerking his head back at the doorway to the bathroom. “We've got to figure out where he went.”

Tony slid himself off the sink and reached for his pants. As he tugged them back on his pouted up at Steve. “Yeah, but... What about recuperating time? He could be anywhere in the world right now, in that rocket he ran off to, trailing a stream of urine in his wake.” Buckling his belt, Tony nodded firmly. “Yeah, nope. Veto. Definitely need to recuperate, regroup, and figure out what to do next.” He stepped forward, pressing Steve against the bathroom door. He placed a hand on Steve's belt, just in case his intentions weren't clear enough. “And maybe get my dick in your ass, because I might have been wanting it up there for months now.”

Steve's breath ghosted across Tony's cheek as he leaned down, eyes intent on Tony's. “Yeah?”

Tony nodded, licking his lips significantly. “Oh yeah.”

Steve leaned down more, lips an inch from Tony's. And then he grinned and moved in to press a kiss to Tony's cheek. “After Zola.”

Tony groaned and thumped his head against Steve's chest.

“No,” he grumbled.

“The trail'll go cold,” Steve pointed out. He tugged lightly at Tony's shoulder until Tony relented and looked up. Steve's gaze was flinty. It was a disturbingly hot look on him. “And I want to make him pay for what he did to you. For what he did to _me_ , _through_ you.”

They kissed one last time, Steve's hands coming up to Tony's face and lingering: stroking at his hair, his jaw, knuckles grazing just behind his ears. And then Steve was pulling away and checking himself over one more time before opening the door. With a petulant little sigh Tony followed him, back into the quinjet proper.

Steve had stopped just outside the door, and Tony did, too, once he saw what Steve was looking at. All the Avengers were, _incredibly pointedly_ , not looking at them. Eyes were fixed firmly forward all around the jet. Not a single person glanced back at them. Not even Clint, who was holding a cold compress to his nose.

Tony winced. Right. That... might have been loud. And obvious. And a couple of the Avengers probably saw them when they reunited in the scattered ruins of Zola's compound.

The team meeting this week was going to be a blast.

Tony coughed and settled back into his seat, Steve on his right once again. He glanced over at Steve and frowned when he noticed Steve staring straight forward. But then Tony took in the tell-tale flush across his cheeks and down his neck, and grinned. Steve was embarrassed. Well. Steve had probably never fucked his past girlfriends on the quinjet, while the other Avengers were onboard, separated from them by only a thin sheet of aluminum and plastic. Actually, now that he thought about it, Tony knew for a _fact_ that Steve had never fucked someone in a plane. He had told him so himself. Tony grinned and leaned over, ignoring the dull ache in his side.

“Welcome to the mile-high club.” He barely even bothered to whisper.

“We need to refocus on Zola,” Steve said in reply, not bending an inch from his regulation straight-backed posture in his chair. Tony snorted and leaned back, relieving the ache in his side.

“I thought we were going back and-”

“ _Tony_.” Steve was using his sternest tone. Tony just laughed, and then laughed more when he saw the smile straining to appear at the corners of Steve's lips. Steve's decidedly kiss-swollen lips.

Tony was going to _wreck that_ _man_. Soon.

After a moment Steve sighed and looked over at Tony, expression softer. “I am serious,” he pointed out. “I... I want to do...” his voice dropped to a whisper, barely-audible over the thrum of the engines. “I want everything you said. All of that. But later. First we have to catch Zola before he slips through our fingers again.” Steve reached out and stroked a thumb over Tony's cheek. Tony leaned into it, eyes fluttering. He was going to have to start reigning in his instinctual response to Steve's touch soon, lest Steve start using that to his advantage when they argued. Because they _were_ going to argue, Tony knew that. And that was alright. “I need to get him, and make him pay what he did to you.”

“He was doing this to get at you,” Tony pointed out. “I want him brought to justice as much as you do. He's hurt too many people, ruined too many lives. And he tried to use me to get at you. We'll bring him in, Steve. I'll make sure of it.”

“Dr. Nakamura,” Steve said, as if just remembering something.

Tony frowned. “I didn't see him-”

Steve interrupted him, eyes sad. Tony guessed what he was going to say before he even said it. “No, you wouldn't have. He's already dead. Zola sent him to me, to tell me what he'd done with you. His body was booby-trapped against him, somehow. As soon as he told me Zola had you, he collapsed, dead.”

Tony's lips pressed together grimly. That was a shame. Nakamura had obviously been one of the good ones. Just another death that Zola was accountable for. That Tony and Steve would make sure he would be brought to justice for.

“We'll avenge him,” Tony promised. He reached out and took Steve's hand in his again. “It's what we do, right?”

“Damn straight,” Steve nodded.

“Yeah, about that...” Tony shrugged. “I may have to revise my opinions on my sexuality.”

Steve laughed. Still smiling, he brought Tony's hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Yeah. I might, too.”

From the front of the plane Clint's voice shouted back: “Get a room you two!”

This time it was Bucky's finger jabbing Clint in the ribs. One of his robot fingers. Clint yelped and fell over in his chair, scrambling to get away from the assault. Tony just held Steve's eyes and smiled. He deserved a little while of being a besotted idiot, he figured. Just a little while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you missed it, be sure to check out the AMAZING art [shaliara](http://shaliara.tumblr.com/) made of [one particular scene on an airplane](http://shaliara.tumblr.com/post/90897666699/pain-at-the-back-of-his-head-steve-was-yanking-on).


	16. Chapter 15

 

“What've we got?” Steve asked.

The team was assembled at Avengers Tower, all the way at the top in the penthouse war room. Data was filling the room, gathered, organized, and projected by Tony via Extremis. He was curled up in a plushy chair and popping Advil like they were M&Ms, but he had fresh bandages and actual medical treatment for all his injuries. He was also double-fisting Gatorade, trying to get his sugar and electrolyte balance back to normal. To top it off, he had an electric blanket wrapped around him from neck to toes. Steve thought he looked adorable, but he couldn't really spare too long for thoughts like that. They had a villain to catch.

Carol was studying several pictures Tony had thrown up of Zola's ascent in his getaway rocket. He must have pulled that from the armors' memory that had witnessed the departure. “He could reach anywhere in the world in that type of ship,” she mumbled. “And given that three hours have passed, he could be there already.” She turned and shook her head. “This doesn't tell me anything.”

Natasha and Jess were huddled over reams of data: whatever they had managed to pull out of the warehouse. “Self-destruct sequences were activated on the electronic data before we got to them,” Natasha said.

Jess held up sheafs of looseleaf printer paper. “But we've got some hardcopies!” she said optimistically.

“Any luck?” Steve prompted.

“None so far.” Jess shook her head, long black hair falling over his shoulders. “But we're looking as fast as we can.”

Steve nodded at Carol. “Help them out with that.” Carol nodded and immediately went over, grabbing half of Jess' stack of papers to start skimming through.

Bucky jogged into the room then, holding up a phone. “Got something. Hey Danny, you're on speaker,” he said to the phone.

Danny's voice came through the phone as Bucky set it on the center table in the room. “ _I've been talking with the civilians through a SHIELD interpreter_ ,” he started with. “ _Most of them don't know much. Most of them are pretty scared, to be honest. They're just civilians who answered the wrong work-placement ad. But a couple of them are technically proficient, and were able to glean some facts about what they were working on_.”

From his cozy corner of the room, Tony. “I _know_ what he was working on. Mr. Cliche-Villain laid out his whole grand scheme to me.”

Steve silenced Tony with a look. Then he hid how surprised he was that it worked.

“Go on, Danny,” he prompted. “Tell us something good.”

“Besides _what Tony has already briefed us all on_ ,” Danny said, no small amount of exasperation in his tone (Tony stuck his tongue out at the phone. Steve's disapproving look didn't work as well this time), _“one of the workers said there would have to be a... a way station of some sort. The armors weren't designed to fly long-range: not from Russia to New York, which is where we've seen them deployed. Zola must have been transporting them to the States, maybe Canada or Greenland at a stretch, and then deploying them from there_.”

Steve snapped his fingers at Bucky. “It couldn't have been the warehouse we raided months ago, could it have?”

Bucky shook his head. “SHIELD scoured that place top to bottom. It's clear: no hidden basements, no secret labs in the wall. Not enough to hold something like an army of robots.”

“Killer: we've narrowed it down to this hemisphere,” Tony snapped. “You got any actual news?”

“A minute, Danny.”

Stoically Steve walked over to Tony, avoiding making eye contact with any of the Avengers in the room. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway, since they were all pointedly avoid looking at him. Or Tony.

“With me. Now.”

Tony rolled his eyes and huffed, but he managed to lever himself up out of his chair and follow Steve to an alcove off the side of the room, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders and one gatorade bottle clenched in his fist.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked him, once they were relatively alone.

“You need to let me go after him,” Tony demanded immediately.

Steve blinked, confused. Then he held out his hands, gesturing at all the activity going on around them. “Go where? We have no idea where he is, Tony. What do you think we're trying to do here?”

“You're not going to let me go after him,” Tony insisted.

Steve stopped, straightened up. Pressed his lips together in a thin line. He should have figured Tony would be able to read him just as well now as he always had.

“You're injured,” he pointed out.

“You let me go after him or I won't fuck you later.”

Steve rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. He raised his eyebrows at Tony as he asked “Is that how all our arguments are going to go from now on?”

Tony grimaced but didn't back down. “You're going to start treating me like Sharon. You're going to try and lock me away, and I'm not-”

“Tony, _Tony._ Hey. Look at me.” Steve reached out and touched Tony's shoulder over top of the blanket, looking him in the eyes. Those blue eyes were angry, brows drawn low over them. Stubborn idiot.

“You're a control freak,” Tony insisted, before Steve could offer any reassurance.

“I'll give you that,” Steve replied with a smile.

At least that seemed to work a little bit. Tony's demeanor eased a little bit, some of the tension draining from him. But then his eyes were turning serious again, angry. He jabbed a finger out from the electric blanket into Steve's chest.

“I want to get this asshole for what he did. For what he tried to do to you, by using me as bait. I want to take him down once and for all, and _I_ want to be the one to do it.”

Closing his hand gently over Tony's, Steve clutched it to his chest and looked Tony straight in the eye. “You're coming with me on this,” he promised. He didn't like the idea of it, but he figured Tony was at least partially right on that: he was going to have to learn to back off and get used to letting Tony put himself in danger, same as always. “You're coming with me, because we're going to take him down _together._ And Zola, and all those other villains out there are going to realize what happens when we work together. He wanted to use you to get to me? Well he did. And now he's got me _and_ you mad at him. Zola dug his own hole in this one, and we're going to _bury_ him. Together.”

Steve was panting hard at the end of his little speech, and he was surprised to see that Tony was too. Tony shifted closer, pressing his lower body against Steve's, and Steve suddenly realized exactly how riled up his words had gotten him.

“Do you have any idea how hot you are when you get all vengeful?” Tony whispered.

Steve coughed and dropped Tony's hand. Then he stepped back to put some space between them. “We have work to do,” he reminded Tony.

Tony grinned and glanced slyly back at the Avengers bustling about the war room. “You think they'd notice if I dragged you into one of the supply closets and sucked your brain out through your dick?”

Steve gently shoved Tony out in front of him and pushed him back into the main area. Tony settled back into his chair, sucking much too provocatively at his gatorade bottle. Steve allowed himself a small smile at that, then turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

“Sorry, Danny. What else did you get?”

Seemingly unperturbed by being put on hold for so long, Danny continued. “ _One of the workers thinks that Zola's got another army in the second location. He says they were building a lot more version of the final armor than were deployed to defend against us. More than that, another worker says that he was organizing shipments of the armors overseas via cargo plane. Tons of them. Wherever he is, he's got armors with him_.”

Steve frowned down at the phone. “So we've got to be careful,” he said mostly to himself.

“No we don't,” Tony pointed out. When Steve shot him the most disapproving look he could muster, he rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair in a huff. “Okay, okay: we _always_ have to be careful, I know. But I mean, if they're the same designs as the ones we just met, I can take control of them just with the one that's got my blood in it.”

Steve grimaced. He didn't need reminding that a few floors below them, under lock and key in one of Tony's R&D labs, was the organic armor that Zola had been pumping Tony's blood into. It was a disturbing enough picture, and Steve hadn't even been witness to it. Tony seemed at ease with the idea, however. Steve just didn't know if that comforted or worried him.

Suddenly Tony jumped out of his chair, shucking the electric blanket entirely.

“Wait, Danny, back up: he's got the armors with him? A lot?”

“ _The workers here seem to think so_.”

Immediately Tony set to work, grabbing a control station away from Luke Cage—who, granted, seemed to be looking at pictures of the baby on Jess' Facebook—and started tapping commands into it at lightening speed.

“Talk to me, Tony,” Steve prompted him. “What's going through that head of yours?”

“Repulsor energy,” he replied, never taking his eyes from the screen. “Same way Bucky and Natasha found him in the first place. You said he sent someone to you, to tell you where I was?”

“Dr. Nakamura,” Steve reminded him.

“Right, shit. That. Well, that means he probably doesn't realize we found him before that. Which _means_ -”

“We can track him down using the repulsor energy emissions,” Steve finished for him. Abandoning the main table, Steve rushed over to Tony's back, watching him work. “Start from here,” he prompted. “Search in concentric-”

“-circles, I got this, Steve. Come on: you think I've never-”

A blip on the screen. Tony turned back to the computer from where he had been leaning into Steve, fingers working furiously. Steve leaned further over his shoulder, eyes darting over the screen. “It's detecting you,” Steve complained. He pointed at the red blip on the map. “That's hovering over us.”

“Hang on...” Tony mumbled. Apparently he thought his find was significant, because he was still working at it.

The satellite view of the East Coast zoomed in several degrees of magnitude. Once it zoomed in enough, Stark Resilient and Avengers Tower became two distinct energy signatures. And between the two of them... one more blip on the map.

“Son of a bitch,” Tony murmured.

“He's here? Why haven't we seen this before? Why didn't any of our early warning systems pick up on this?”

“He's too close,” Tony explained. “Even if we were looking for him, which we weren't, we'd have to be looking at this level of magnification to even notice there was a third energy reading.”

“The kids in the river,” Steve gasped. Tony was nodding his understanding already. “They must have gotten too close; tripped a defense system. Why didn't we see it?”

Tony shook his head. “Millions of pieces of data every day, Steve. We're not supercomputers. Not even me. And we weren't searching for this type of energy signature at all.”

Off to the side, Luke snorted even as he flipped his sunglasses down from his forehead to his nose. “We're not going to end up raiding your secret stash, are we, Stark?”

Tony nodded his head, eyes still a little wide and shocked from the discovery. “Not as far as I remember, but my memory hasn't been the best these days.”

“So I've heard,” Luke snorted. Then he laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles loudly. “Well, what are waiting for? Only one way to find out.”

Tony turned to Steve and grinned. “Gotta say I agree with Luke, there.”

Pulling his gloves back on, Steve nodded grimly. “You're right.” He turned to the rest of the room. “Avengers, Assemble! We know where he is.” He turned back to Tony, grabbing him by the elbow before he ran off. “You're not healed yet.”

“I'm going,” Tony growled.

“I didn't say you weren't,” Steve pointed out. “But you're going on a consulting role, mostly. You're not to suit up unless necessary.” Stepping closer, Steve touched his just above Tony's wrist splint. “You've got a broken wrist, Tony, and severe tissue damage to your right side. You can't say I would have asked anything differently before.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but conceded. “Fine. But I want to be there when you take that asshole down.”

“I wouldn't deny you that,” Steve said with a smile. Then, because he suddenly realized he _could_ , Steve leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Tony's lips. He was going to have to tone down the PDAs—they weren't very professional, after all—but he figured he was allowed to let it slide for today. Tony seemed to enthusiastically agree, because Steve found himself having to break away from Tony before they really did go through with Tony's earlier suggestion concerning supply closets.

Wiping his mouth, Steve started off for the quinjet with the other Avengers. Tony fell into step at Steve's side. In that moment, everything was exactly how it was supposed to be.

* * *

Steve jumped off the quinjet without so much as a goodbye kiss, though Tony supposed he ought to get used to that. PDAs and unprofessionalism and all that stuff that Steve was worried about. Tony snorted to himself as he settled into the pilot's seat, watching the Avengers jump off the quinjet ramp and onto the swampland, or fly above it as Carol and Rhodey were doing. The Young Avengers had tagged along this time, whichever ones didn't have better things to do. Baby Hawkeye and still-acted-like-a-baby-but-legally-an-adult Hawkeye were already arguing about some plant Baby Hawkeye was gesturing at.

Everything seemed perfectly fine until the ground beneath their feet opened up.

Scrambling at the quinjet's controls, Tony got it hovering a second before it would have crashed straight into the rapidly-appearing abyss below them. Tony grunted as he tugged at the controls, finally bringing the plane level a few feet above where it had landed. Of course, now that was hundreds of yards above anything resembling solid ground.

Beneath him, the rest of the Avengers were scrambling to find their own safe perches. Sam scooped up Cap and Rhodey went for Baby Hawkeye, Carol going for Natasha after a quick glance to make sure Jess was gliding alright. The rest of the non-flying Avengers managed to jump onto some scaffolding as it appeared, structures just beneath the false ground. Turns out, the scaffolding was there not for the stray Avenger who needed help as the ground disappeared beneath their feet, but presumably for the rocket ship it was set up around.

Tony watched as the rocket ship came into view. For all of his monologuing about scientific progress and the glory of the future, Zola really was a creature of habit.

A glimmer of movement in the depths of the madman's base. Tony leaned forward in his chair, standing after a moment to peer further through the window, trying to get a better view. Another glimmer of movement, but nothing definite. Something was moving down there... maybe heading for the surface...

Tony jumped backwards and fell into the pilot seat as a swarm of armors flew past the quinjet window. He jarred his side, causing a fresh shot of pain through his body. He felt a rip and a tear, and wetness _Shit_. He'd busted his fresh stitches. But he didn't have time to think about that now.

Spinning around, Tony gestured at his new armor pet that he'd brought along with him. “Go!” he shouted. This was what he was here for, after all: to neutralize the threat of Zola's armor army.

The organic armor was off like a shot, dropping out the bottom of the quinjet and immediately firing its thrusters to send it high into the air above the scene. Settling into the pilot's chair, Tony grabbed the armrests and hung on tight. Squeezing his eyes shut, he concentrated.

He was close with the armor in the sky. Could feel his blood pumping through its veins, all the blood Zola had managed to synthesize in the time Tony was out. Feel the Extremis virus multiplied and spread through its system in addition to Tony's. The armor was an extra arm, or a leg: part of him. And through it, the rest of the armors were his as well.

Tony spread his mind out, exerting his influence over the armors that were buzzing out of the ground, swarming around the Avengers like hornets whose nest had just been trampled on by a unruly child. Could see the network, the veins, feel every armor running around like a toe, or a finger. A single fiber, each of them, making up a massive network that was him.

 _Stop_. The armors stopped. _Move_. The armors moved. _Destroy Zola_. The armors wrought destruction.

“ _Nice work, Tony_ ,” Steve's voice said over the comms. Tony relaxed in his seat, breathing out slowly as he unstuck his hands from the armrests. Slowly he opened his eyes, taking in the scene in front of him. The armors were flying down into the hole where the earth used to be. The rocket started to flare up, engines illuminating the subterranean base for just a second. Tony tensed up, fingers at the trigger of the quinjet missiles. But then a crash, more explosions, and then engines switched off. Tony grinned. Those would be his boys.

“ _Alright Avengers, let's get down there and mop this up. Zola is our top priority_.”

Tony sat back in his chair and watched as Steve directed the team down into the base. Nothing left now but to wait. And maybe see if he couldn't find Zola himself and give him a well-deserved punch in the face. Closing his eyes, Tony set to work peering through the armors. Zola wouldn't be able to hide from him for long.

* * *

An hour later, and Tony was drumming his fingers on the dash of the quinjet, watching the hole in the ground beneath the plane. Zola had sealed himself into what amounted to basically a panic room, and the Avengers were occupied with patiently breaking their way in.

“You in yet?” Tony asked for the hundredth time.

For the hundredth time, Clint tried to reply with “That's what Steve said.”

For the hundredth time, Baby Hawkeye elbowed him sharp in the ribs. Apparently she wasn't as good at it yet as Natasha. Tony had faith that she'd get there.

“Almost there,” Rhodey replied.

Tony straightened up in his seat. Quickly he switched his perspective into that of his main armor, which was standing alongside Steve in front of the panic room door. Through the eyes of the armor, he glanced around. Rhodey was bent over a final piece of wiring to finish up melting the hinges off the damn door. Shifting his consciousness more fully into the organic armor, Tony nudged Steve with its shoulder. “You ready?”

Steve nodded tightly. Tony could see how much this meant to him. He only hoped Zola hadn't pulled another magic hat trick while they were occupied with this damn door. He'd been hunting Zola since the forties. Putting him away, hopefully for good, would be one of his top victories of all time. Gently, Tony reached out with his armored hand and tapped two fingers to Steve's wrist. Steve turned to him and smiled, some of the tension lines around his eyes easing.

“Alright, stand back!” Rhodey called. He, Bucky, and Natasha moved away from what they'd been doing to the door. Everybody else took several steps back and covered their eyes.

“3... 2... 1... Fire in the hole!” Rhodey shouted. A flash of light, brighter than the damn sun went off in the dark of the subterranean base. Tony pulled his senses away from the armor for a moment, even though he couldn't get any actual retina damage from the flare.

Five, maybe ten seconds, and the flare died down. A slow groan of metal over metal, and the door was leaning in, barely hanging on. Luke Cage took a step forward and with one mighty punch brought the whole thing crashing down, into the room beyond it.

The armor Tony was controlling rushed forward with Steve, the two of them entering the room at the same time. Zola was there, sitting in a corner and looking overly put-upon for a giant head in a chest.

“I did not expect you to find me so quickly,” Zola grumbled.

“That's what you get when you double the amount of Avengers with a personal grudge against you,” Tony pointed out. “Feel free to remind your fellow prisoners of that. “You ever plan on going after me, Steve'll rain hell down on you. And if you go after Steve, I'm sure I can cook up something even worse than that.”

“If you attack one Avenger, you attack us all.” Steve stepped forward, flashing that strong jaw and patented Rogers disapproving stare. “That's what being an Avenger is all about.”

Tony shrugged. “Yeah, right, or that can be the moral of all this, whatever.”

“Arnim Zola: You're under arrest.”

Zola sighed and got to his feet. “It does not take a genius intellect to gather as much, Captain.” He stuck out his hands and waited impatiently as Steve handcuffed him. Once he was secure, Steve passed him off to Bucky to lead away (Bucky still was Captain America, after all).

Tony grinned, though it didn't translate through the organic armor, and shoved his shoulder into Steve's. “Felt good?”

Steve was all smiles. He didn't even have any of that grim, but-at-what-cost sort of look he had after some missions. He turned to the armor and sighed. “Felt great,” he agreed. Then he stopped and cocked his head, waiting a beat as the rest of the Avengers filed out of the room. “Though, I can think of a couple other things that might feel better.”

Tony mock-gasped, not sure how well that sounded modulated through the organic armor but not caring.

“Did Steve Rogers just say that there was something out there better than _justice_?! Can't be. This is a trap. You're a clone. Clone-Steve: what have you done with my Steve? Oh, actually, _there's_ a thought: two Steve's.”

Steve shrugged and started exiting the base. Tony followed him via the armor. “Well, if there's no convincing you I guess I'll just go back to the apartment alone-”

“You get your ass up to the quinjet, Rogers, before I decide to test out my techno-kink.”

Steve shot a faintly horrified glance over at the armor Tony was controlling. “You're never allowed to mention that again,” he ordered.

“Get moving and I won't have to,” Tony promised.

“Yes sir.”

Tony grinned and dropped back in the pilot's seat. Fucking hell. They had done it. Everything had actually worked out.

Or, would be, as soon as Tony figured out what he was going to do with thousands of organic armors based on his DNA.

Tony sighed and commanded them all to the old Avengers Mansion, to the sub-basements. He'd deal with those later. For now, he had Steve Rogers heading up to him, and some seriously deserved R&R time. And he wasn't about to waste a second of it worrying about some nasty experiments.

* * *

Steve shut the door to his apartment, then hesitated for a moment, hand on the rough wood. He wasn't sure what to do here, how to act. There was still so much unsaid between them, so much guilt and misplaced blame. Things had been okay while they were running, while there was a battle to be fought and things to do, but now...

“Steve?”

It was the nervousness in Tony's voice that made Steve turn around. He didn't want Tony to be uncertain, unsure about where he stood in Steve's heart. Because if there was one thing Steve knew after all this mess, it was that he cared more deeply for Tony than he'd ever thought possible. That he wanted Tony at his side, and in his bed, if Tony'd have him.

“Hey there.” Immediately Steve winced at his own words. Those were stupid. They didn't say anything that he wanted them to say.

But Tony was smiling tentatively at him, some of that nervousness eased by Steve's own display of it.

They needed to rest, Tony more than Steve. He needed to sleep for a _week_ , to be under lock and key until he recovered from Zola's experiments and torture. But if Steve left it for a week, if he didn't show Tony how much he wanted him, how much he wanted _this,_ Tony might cut and run, and they'd be back to square one. They would talk it over, make his feelings known that way, but Steve had always considered himself a man of action. Planning and strategy were good policy most of the time, but sometimes you just had to grab the bull by the horns and go for it. And right now, this moment, was about action. They could worry about the rest later: where they stood, what they were to each other, and getting some much-deserved rest. Now, Tony needed him to be decisive, to take control.

Rushing forward, Steve cradled Tony's face with his hands and pulled him in for a breath-stealing kiss. Tony went willingly, melting against Steve's chest as he opened his lips to Steve. Their tongues tangled, lips sucking sweetly against each other. Steve felt more than heard Tony moan into his mouth, which elicited its own moan from Steve.

Gently Steve nudged Tony backwards, towards his bedroom. Tony's kisses turned more frantic then, more passionate. Steve didn't mind the uptake, meeting each bruising kiss with one of his own, teeth nipping at Tony's lips when he got too fresh himself. He felt Tony smile into the kiss the first time he did that.

Taking a chance, Steve moved his hands from Tony's face down to his ass, then lower. With one powerful movement Steve lifted Tony up onto his hips. He sighed his relief into Tony's mouth when Tony's response to the move was an enthusiastic groan and wrapping his legs around Steve's waist. Steve hadn't been sure he'd like that, but judging by the erection Tony was grinding into his stomach, it'd been a good choice.

They fell down to the bed together, Steve covering Tony with his body. Their hips moved against each other, sending building waves of pleasure through Steve's system like ripples on a pond. Steve broke off from kissing Tony just for a moment. Long enough to tug his shirt off one handed. Beneath him Tony did the same, squirming out of his shirt and then going for his belt.

Steve reached out and covered Tony's hand with his, stilling him. “Let me,” he murmured. Then he leaned in and kissed Tony again, once, twice, three times. He broke away with a sigh, pressing gentle kisses to the sides of Tony's mouth, then to his jaw, then down to his neck. Above him Tony sighed and arched, preening under the attention. Steve smiled into his skin, closing his eyes against a wave of happiness. He couldn't believe he had this. Couldn't believe he had almost missed out. Couldn't believe he _had_ been missing out, hadn't realized this was right here waiting for him, all these years.

Methodically Steve kissed his way down Tony's chest, lapping at the golden skin, nipping lightly at the dark nipples and then soothing them with his tongue. Later, he would start to come up with plans for attack. Later he would worry about cataloguing every one of Tony's sensitive spots, his moans and sighs, learn how to please him. He'd learn what would set Tony off fastest, and how to draw things out, to keep Tony strung along the edge of pleasure until he was delirious with it. But for now, for right this moment, Steve didn't care about studying or strategizing or any of those things. He just wanted to have Tony, to be with him. That's all this moment was about.

When his lips reached the waist of Tony's jeans he lifted his head, smiling up at Tony as his fingers moved over the button. The heel of his palm not-so-accidentally brushed the bulge hidden by the heavy denim, causing Tony's watchful eyes to snap shut for a moment and his hips to arch up. Steve grinned when Tony glared down at him. “Taking your time?” he gritted out.

“Yeah,” Steve replied simply. The he pressed a light kiss to the sharp arch of Tony's hipbones, peeking over the edge of his jeans. His fingers popped open the button on them, then slid down the zipper. A sigh from above him, as Steve helped Tony shimmy out of his jeans and his hard cock sprung free. Steve raised an eyebrow up at Tony.

“No underwear today?”

Tony winked. “You know, when I was changing while you were turning Zola over to Reed, I had this strange premonition that I might be getting laid today. Figured I'd save myself the trouble. And the extra laundry.”

“Like you do your own laundry,” Steve mumbled into Tony's hip. He pressed his nose into the seam of Tony's leg, where thigh met waist, and breathed deep. The smell was so different from a woman's sex. Muskier, manlier. Steve didn't find he minded it at all. He turned his head to look at tony's erect penis. He far from minded that: in fact, the smell and sight was making his mouth water.

Experimentally Steve grabbed at the base of Tony's dick, holding it in place. Steeling himself, Steve bent his head and wrapped his lips around the head, sucking lightly. Above him, Tony gasped but held still, hips not moving up at all. A burst of fresh precome hit Steve's tongue, and he lapped it away. Not bad at all. Not even as bitter and unpleasant as he'd been led to believe, but perhaps that was Tony's unique taste, or the fact that it was precome and not the main course.

Time enough to find out the specifics later. With one last loving lick, Steve released Tony's dick and left it, to make the return crawl up Tony's body. They kissed again, Tony hungrier than before, right hand moving over Steve's shoulder and down his back, scratching lightly. His hips rolled harder up against Steve's: insistent, needy. Steve groaned into the kiss, the needs of his own erection starting to become impossible to ignore.

Tony started to push insistently at Steve's chest until he gave in and rolled off of Tony, onto his back. Tony followed enthusiastically, kissing and sucking at Steve's lips as his right hand went for his pants. “Help me out there,” he mumbled into the kiss. Steve was happy to comply, shucking himself of pants and underwear as quickly as he could with a naked, squirming Tony on top of him.

Tony pulled back when he was fully nude. For a long moment he stopped and stared, straddling Steve's waist, just looking at him. Steve laid back and gazed up at him, eyes searching Tony's face for answers.

“You're so fucking perfect,” Tony breathed. His hands ran down Steve's chest.

Steve froze, grabbed Tony's hands, stopped him. He waited until Tony was looking him the eyes, confusion plainly written across his features.

“I'm not.” Steve's voice cracked.

Seriously, so seriously, and goodness: Steve wasn't used to seeing Tony so serious. His eyes bore into Steve's, and with complete and utter sincerity he turned his hands in Steve's grip so they were squeezing back, holding them.

“You are,” Tony replied. “Don't. You are.”

“I'm-” Steve couldn't go on.

He didn't need to. Because Tony leaned down and kissed him, drawing him in, taking all protests away.

Steve let Tony enter him soon after that, slowly opening him up finger by finger until he sunk in, condom-less, into Steve's body. Steve grabbed at Tony's forearm, tight enough to bruise maybe, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“You with me?” he asked. He couldn't say anything more than that: not yet, not now. Not after everything that had gone on between them, everything that was still between them. Even if he knew that he loved Tony, he wouldn't say it like this, not yet. But he could ask this much: ask if Tony was with him.

And Tony nodded immediately, like he knew exactly what Steve was asking and what he wasn't, and was answering all of it at once.

“I'm with you,” he replied seriously. He rolled his hips, then leaned down, bending Steve further in half, and pressed his forehead to Steve's. “I'm with you,” he whispered again.

Then he captured Steve's lips in a kiss and swallowed his moans as he fucked into him, hard and purposeful and deep. It was all Steve could to do hold on, to watch Tony the whole while, and move with him.

Soon, too soon, Steve knew he was done. Tony was too relentless, driving into him too fast and too perfectly. Steve held on tight to Tony's shoulder, sweat glistening in his chest hair as he gasped for air.

“ _Tony_ ,” he grunted. “Tony, you gotta... c'mon...”

“You gonna come?” Tony asked, and oh shoot, hearing him say it just like that, having Tony look down at him, panting and moving and sweating with him. Steve came apart, ejaculate shooting out his body and onto his chest. Steve gasped and cried out, body shaking with the movements. Tony was still driving into him, and oh damn: that was like nothing Steve had ever felt. Over-sensitive and already spent, to still be receiving pleasure like that, to still being fucked that relentlessly... Steve shuddered again, shouting this time, probably loud enough to wake his neighbors. Another burst of cum spilt out from him, and he didn't even know that was _possible_ , but Tony was still fucking him and Steve didn't know what to do with himself.

Tony came a second later, grunting loudly as he pounded into Steve's ass, flesh slapping against flesh a few last times as he wrung every drop from himself into Steve. The thought of Tony inside him, like that, made Steve moan hopelessly again, though it appeared his body was done with the full climaxes for the moment at least.

Sweaty and wrung-out, Tony pulled out of Steve and collapsed onto the bed next to him, moaning slightly when he jarred himself too hard. Carefully Steve reached over and placed his hand on Tony's stomach, avoiding the damaged tissue beneath the clean bandages on the side.

“You didn't pull your stitches, did you?” he gasped. He probably should have worried about that earlier.

Instead of replying Tony panted out “Did you come twice?”

Steve flushed for the first time since he'd let Tony into his apartment that evening. It was always embarrassing explaining some of the... more undocumented effects of the serum to his bed partners.

“That happens. Sometimes. It's the-”

“-serum.” Tony finished for him. A beat, then “Ever figure out just how many times you can go?”

Steve rolled his eyes. Of course Tony would ask that. “Doesn't really matter,” he replied. “If you can't-”

“-If I can't, I can invent something that can,” Tony pointed out.

Steve stared at the ceiling for a moment, orgasm-addled brain taking a moment to parse Tony's words.

When it finally did, he replied: “Well. Golly gee whizz.”

He was rewarded with a pillow smacked down onto his face. Steve laughed and rolled over on top of Tony, carefully pinning him for another long, extended kissing session.

 


	17. Epilogue

 

The morning light was bright through Tony's windows, the shades on the huge glass windows pulled back. Steve had opened them with the remote that Tony forgot he kept in the bedside drawer—forgotten probably because Tony was able to control the shades with Extremis. Steve had found it one morning when he was scourging around, trying to get some natural light into the room while Tony still slept.

Which was exactly what Tony was doing right now: sleeping next to Steve in his spacious bed, while Steve sat up and read his book. You wouldn't know it was a double king-sized bed by looking at Tony, though. He was wrapped around Steve like an octopus, limbs akimbo and tangled every which-way with Steve's. Steve was lying with one arm safely escaped from the mess that was Tony's clinginess, the one that was holding the book, so he could read it safely away from Tony's groping.

Steve had just reached the end of his chapter and was considering how much he wanted to go for a run versus how difficult it would be to separate himself from Tony when Tony bolted upright, eyes still closed.

“Whaayawan, Reed?”

Patiently Steve waited, staring over at Tony, as the other man slowly woke up. He blinked a couple times, taking in the scene around him. After a moment he turned and looked down at Steve, smiling when he realized Steve was still there. Steve smiled back up at him, then reached out and placed his hand on Tony's lower back.

 _What is it?_ He mouthed.

That seemed to remind Tony why he woke up, because sudden recognition spread across his face. His expression turned inward for a moment as he concentrated. Then, over the speakers hidden everywhere in Tony's rooms, Reed Richard's voice poured out.

“ _I was calling to ask if you'd heard any of the reports. Did I wake you_?”

“'m fine,” Tony mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

Scooting forward on the bed, Steve pressed a kiss to the dip low on Tony's back, just above the firm swell of his ass. Then he rolled himself out of bed and padded over to the bathroom, setting his book down on his bedside table as he went. He left the door to the bathroom open to listen to the conversation as he washed his face and brushed his teeth. He'd shower after he went for a run.

“ _Ben just called._ _He said he had a hammer crash down into his living room this morning_.”

“A hammer?” Tony replied. Steve stuck his head out the bathroom door to share a confused look with Tony as he brushed his teeth. When Tony threw a “do you know?” look his way, Steve just shrugged and shook his head.

“ _Judging by the energy readings I'm picking up? It's Asgardian in origin. You were the first person I thought to call._ ”

If Tony hadn't been awake before, he was now. Jumping out of bed, Tony padded naked across the bedroom to the bathroom, brushing a hand over Steve's stomach as he passed him. Steve caught his hand and whispered into his hair “Tell Reed to say 'hey' to Zola for me.” Tony grinned and slipped passed him toward the shower.

“Okay, yeah. Asgardian hammer, fell from the sky, into the Thing's living room? You've got my attention, Reed.”

Tony flipped on the shower with a wave of his hand, grabbing a towel from the linen closet. Steve spit into the sink and rinsed his mouth out. One of those Saturdays, then. 

When Tony hung up with Reed he was already in the shower, scrubbing his hair with his eyes closed. Steve stood outside it and waited for him to rinse before he spoke.

“I'm going out for a jog,” he told Tony. “Call me if you need anything.”

Tony nodded, then reached out a grabby hand when Steve made to turn away. Sighing, Steve leaned in for a kiss, getting a face full of shower spray for his troubles. Tony smiled into the kiss, pecking him once more lightly before letting him go. 

“Give you the four-one-one tonight if it's anything interesting. Enzo's? Seven?” 

Steve smiled. “Sure thing.”

As he turned away to get dressed in his jogging sweats and hoodie, Tony called out after him. “Four-one-one is slang for 'information'! I know you guys didn't have that back in the forties-”

“See you tonight, Tony!” Steve shouted over the noise of the shower. He smiled to himself as he slipped on his sweats and sneakers, Tony's laughter and then bad signing following him out the door. Whatever this new weirdness was, Steve was sure they'd defeat it. Together there was nothing they couldn't vanquish. Or at the very least: avenge. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this scene is based off a WIP artwork by [sirdef](http://sirdef.tumblr.com/). She's a lovely artist, you should totally check out her stuff.


End file.
